


Shifting Paradigms: The Definition of Nobility

by Merlinda_Dragon



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-01 19:18:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 50
Words: 389,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5217680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merlinda_Dragon/pseuds/Merlinda_Dragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A novella describing the adventures of Myranda Cousland: Noble, Warden, Hero.</p>
<p>Certain chapters will contain detailed sexual content and sexual innuendo, as well as the depictions of violence.  Proceed with care.  Hints at F!Cousland/Ser Gilmore and F!Cousland/Zevran also appear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Origins

**Chapter 1: Origins**

_It is neither wealth nor splendor; but tranquility and occupation which give you happiness." ~Thomas Jefferson_

 

Myranda Cousland pushed open one of the side doors to the Great Hall quietly so as not to interrupt the two men talking inside. She stood inside the doorway for a few moments, emerald green eyes blinking as she tried to acclimate them to the gloom of the Hall after the bright sunshine. When her eyes were clear, she subconsciously lifted a hand to smooth her slightly damp blonde hair, patting the two coiled braids to make sure they were still securely pinned at the base of her skull even after the light sluicing she had given herself on her way from the training yard. It was a silly thing to do, slightly sweaty and dressed in her armor like she was, but even she wouldn't deny herself some feminine vanity. Her soft leather boots made little noise as she walked toward the massive fireplace where her father, Teyrn Bryce Cousland, stood staring into the blaze. Though a man in his middle age whose once dark hair had turned mostly to grey, the teyrn still commanded a great deal of respect from many.

"I trust, then, that your troops will be here shortly?" he asked, obviously addressing the other man in the room, his longtime friend Rendon Howe, arl of the neighboring lands of Amaranthine.

"I expect they will start arriving tonight," the arl replied, "and we can march tomorrow." He bowed slightly. "I apologize for the delay, my lord. This is entirely my fault."

"No, no," Bryce said as he turned. "The appearance of the darkspawn in the south has us all scrambling, doesn't it? I only received the call from the king a few days ago, myself."

His voice was light and dismissive, but Myranda could tell that he was displeased with the situation. She was troubled by it herself. The arl's men should have arrived three days ago... where in Thedas could they be?

"I'll send Fergus off with my men," her father went on. "You and I will ride tomorrow." He smiled then. "Just like the old days!"

Arl Howe smirked. "True." The slight smile faded then. "Though we both had less grey in our hair then. And we fought Orlesians, not... monsters."

"At least the smell will be the same!" Bryce said with a laugh.

Myranda couldn't hold back her own soft giggle at the comment, drawing her father's attention.

"I'm sorry, Pup," he said, turning to her. "I didn't see you there." He smiled a little. "Giving the knights a beating are you?"

She looked down at her leather armor and shrugged before lifting her green eyes and grinning at her father. "It keeps them in shape... and in line."

Bryce laughed at that. "Howe, you remember my daughter?"

"I see she's become a lovely young woman," Howe said. "Pleased to see you again, my dear."

Myranda smiled and bowed her head. "And you, Arl Howe."

"My son Nathaniel asked after you. Perhaps I should bring him with me next time."

She smiled at the memory of the good-looking young man with long raven hair and bright, captivating silver eyes. Nathaniel was three years older than her and had more often been Fergus's companion when they were children, but the two of them had much in common, and had often sat up talking until the sun rose. He was possibly the only person on the northern coast who could best her in archery, a skill she hated and greatly admired in him. He had tried to steal a kiss from her twice when she was twelve, and though she'd threatened him at the time, now she wasn't sure she would object. It had been so long since she or Fergus had heard anything from him, and she had started to wonder if he'd forgotten them. "I'd like that."

"Good!" Howe said, sounding pleased. "Nate saw you at a Denerim fair and has talked about you ever since. He asked me to tell you hello if I saw you... he'll be pleased you remember him."

"I'm flattered he remembers me. Send him my regards."

"I certainly will, my dear."

"At any rate, Pup," Bryce said, "I summoned you for a reason. While your brother and I are both away, I'm leaving you in charge of the castle."

Myranda looked up at him in surprise. "What?! Why can't I go into battle with you and Fergus?"

"I'm certain you'd more than prove yourself, but I am not willing to deal with your mother if you join the war." He shook his head. "She'd kill me if I let you go. She's already twisted into knots about Fergus and me going."

"But I...!" Myranda cut herself off and sighed, knowing it would be useless to argue. "Very well. I'll do what you think is best."

Bryce smiled and nodded once. "Now that's what I like to hear." He took her arm gently, though his light blue eyes bore into her green ones. "Only a token force is remaining here, and you _must_ keep peace in the region. You know what they say about mice when the cat is away, yes?"

She nodded. "Yes, Father. I understand."

"There's also someone you must meet." He turned to a nearby guard, who straightened his spine with a clanking of plate metal armor. "Please... show Duncan in."

Myranda looked toward the main entry as the door opened to reveal a tall, muscular man with black hair that was graying at the temples and a full black beard. She thought she had seen him at the training ground, but she couldn't be certain. He had a noble bearing about him, though she was certain she'd never seen him before. The standard of a rampant griffon on his breastplate confirmed that they hadn't met at some forgettable soiree at court--no house in Ferelden had such a crest.

"It is an honor to be a guest within your hall, Teyrn Cousland," he said.

"A Grey Warden?" Myranda asked, looking at her father. "Here?"

Howe suddenly looked nervous. "Your Lordship, you didn't mention that a Grey Warden would be present."

Bryce looked at his longtime friend. "Duncan arrived just recently, unannounced." He narrowed his eyes slightly. "Is there a problem?"

Howe laughed a little at this question. "Of course not, but a guest of this stature demands certain protocol. I am... at a disadvantage."

"We rarely have the pleasure of seeing one in person," Bryce consented, "that's true." He turned to Myranda. "Pup, Brother Aldous taught you who the Grey Wardens are, I hope?"

She nodded. "They defeated the darkspawn long ago, at the Battle of... Ayesleigh, I think?" she said, looking at the Grey Warden.

The Grey Warden--Duncan--inclined his head in confirmation. "But not permanently, I fear."

"Without their warning of the darkspawn rising now, half the nation could have been overrun before we'd had a chance to react," the teyrn continued.

"Then I suppose we should thank you for your vigil," Myranda said graciously.

"Thank you, my lady," Duncan said.

"Duncan is looking for recruits before joining us and his fellow Wardens in the south," Bryce told Myranda. "I believe he's got his eye on Ser Gilmore."

Myranda looked at her father in slight horror. "He's recruiting Rory?" She quailed at the harsh look he gave her, but couldn't help the tremor of fear that ran through her.

"If I might be so bold," Duncan interjected, "I would suggest that your daughter is also an excellent candidate. She was quite impressive earlier in the training field."

Myranda felt herself smile and flush slightly at the compliment, pleased that her skill had been noticed and appreciated.

"Honor though that might be," the teyrn said evenly, moving to stand between the Grey Warden and Myranda, "this is my daughter we're talking about."

The smile left the young woman's face, confused by this protective behavior. "Is there a reason I shouldn't join them?"

"You did just finish saying that Grey Wardens are heroes, old friend," Howe added.

"I've not so many children that I'll gladly see them all off to battle." Light blue eyes narrowed critically. "Unless you intend to invoke the Right of Conscription...?"

"Have no fear," Duncan said. "While we need as many good recruits as we can find, I've no intention of forcing the issue."

Bryce nodded slightly, satisfied with the answer. "Pup," he said, turning to his daughter, "can you ensure that Duncan's requests are seen to while I'm gone?"

"Of course, Father."

"In the meantime, find Fergus and tell him to lead the troops to Ostagar ahead of me."

"But I'd like to stay and talk to Duncan," Myranda said.

"You'll have plenty of time after we're gone," the teyrn said soothingly. "We must discuss the battle plans in the south." He smiled a little at her. "Be a good lass and do as I've asked. We'll talk soon."

Myranda smiled and bowed her head a little. "Yes, Father." She looked at Duncan. "May we speak later?" she asked.

"Your father has left you in charge of the castle? Then I will see you at dinner tomorrow, if not sooner."

"I would prefer sooner."

"Then let us meet in the morning," Duncan said. "I will seek you out before Ser Gilmore's testing. Would that be sufficient?"

Myranda nodded. "Yes, that should be fine."

"Until the morning, then," he said with a slight bow of his head. "I look forward to it."

"As do I." She turned to the arl. "I wish you well, Arl Howe."

Howe blinked, seemingly in surprise. "I..." he looked away then. "Thank you. That is... _quite_ unnecessary."

Myranda gave him a puzzled look, confused by his strange behavior, before shrugging slightly and leaving the men to their battle plans.

She stepped outside, still wondering at the arl's behavior when she heard a familiar voice that made her breath catch in her throat.

"My lady!"

She turned to face the young red-haired knight, a smile crossing her lips. It was amazing how the sight of him still caused her heart to pound. "Rory."

Ser Roland Gilmore trotted up to her. "There you are!" he said. "Your mother told me the teyrn had summoned you, so I didn't want to interrupt."

"You were looking for me?" The idea sent her heart fluttering in giddy delight.

"I was, my lady."

"Won't you call me Myranda?" she asked. "There's no need to call me 'my lady' when we're alone."

The smile on his face faded then. "It... wouldn't be proper."

"Rory..."

"Please, my lady," he said, bowing his head.

Myranda sighed and looked at the ground, her heart breaking again. The wound from the forced dissolution of their relationship was as fresh as the day it had happened six months before. She had tried to get him to maintain even a friendly relationship with her, but he had refused, holding to a strict formality. "So what's happened?" she asked, changing the subject.

"I fear your hound has the kitchens in uproar once again," Roland said. He managed a slight smile then. "Nan is threatening to leave."

She sighed and shook her head. "Did Baby get into the larder again?"

The knight nodded. "No matter how the maids try to keep him out, he always manages to find a way in. You know these mabari hounds," he went on. "He'll listen to his mistress, but anyone else risks having an arm bitten off."

"He knows better than to hurt anyone," she interjected. "Especially you."

"I'm not willing to test that," Roland said. He held up his hands. "I like having all my fingers."

Myranda giggled.

"You're quite lucky to have your own mabari war hound, you know," he told her. "Smart enough not to talk, my father used to say. Of course," he added with a grin, his dark green eyes sparkling, "that means he's easily bored. Nan swears he confounds her just to amuse himself."

"Perhaps he does. But Baby likes Nan, he wouldn't do anything to make her truly angry at him." She smiled. "And Nan is more fond of him than she lets on."

"At any rate, your mother would have me accompany you until the matter is settled. Shall we?"

She nodded. "To the kitchen, then."

"Just follow the yelling," he said, pointing over his shoulder. "When Nan's unhappy, she makes sure _everyone_ knows it."

"Yes, I know. That much hasn't changed from when I was a child." They started toward the kitchen, Myranda looking to fill the uneasy silence between them. "There's a Grey Warden in the castle, you know. He said he's looking to recruit you."

"Yes, I'd heard about him, although I've yet to meet him myself."

"Do you know much about them?"

Roland shrugged. "Only what everyone hears," he said. "I never expected to actually see one. So few of them are here in Ferelden."

"That's true. I wonder if they're really as skilled as the legends say."

"I hear they only recruit the most skilled. It'd be disappointing if that wasn't true."

Myranda smirked at him. "Well it's no wonder they're recruiting you, then," she teased. She giggled as he blushed at the compliment. "Is that why you aren't marching with our men?"

"Your father decided I should remain with the complement guarding the castle." He sighed a little. "I hope that's because this Grey Warden wishes to see me. Were it my choice, I'd be marching to Ostagar."

Myranda didn't need to ask why he wished to leave: even in the short time they had been walking toward the kitchen, the sexual tension between them was oppressive. With the departure of her father--the only physical reminder of the impropriety of their affair--she wasn't sure if they'd be able to hold themselves back. "What happens if the Grey Wardens recruit you?" she asked.

"I only know that once you become a Grey Warden, your old life is over. There's no going back."

Myranda frowned. "I see," she said, looking at the cobbles beneath her feet.

"What if the Grey Warden tries to recruit you?" he asked suddenly. "Have you thought about it?"

Myranda smirked at him. "And why would he recruit me when he could have you?" she asked as they turned into the slightly dark corridor toward the kitchen.

"Begging your pardon, my lady, but you are no ordinary woman," Roland said with a grin. "You're strong, skilled, and easily the equal of any man, on the field or off." His smile softened a little. "The Grey Wardens would be fools to overlook you," he murmured.

She smiled at him. "He assured my father he wouldn't recruit me."

"He could change his mind," Roland noted. "Grey Wardens are notorious for doing whatever is necessary to fight the darkspawn. Scribe Aldous once told me that the Grey Wardens used to burn entire villages to keep them out of darkspawn hands."

Myranda shot him a look. "Really?"

"That's what he told me... and he doesn't seem the type to make something like that up."

"I suppose there's a logic in that... burn the village for the greater good. Still..." she let her voice trail off. "I really don't know how I feel about it," she said finally.

"Being the most beautiful woman in Highever, I suppose you have many other options," he said before sighing heavily. "Me, I would give anything to be recruited."

Myranda frowned. "I'd hate to see you go," she murmured. "It's possible we'd never see each other again."

"That may be best... for both of us."

She stopped and looked at him, hurt. "You don't mean that, do you?" she asked.

Roland looked back at her, his dark eyes giving the only indication of his inner conflict. "I don't know," he said after a moment. "I admit, it would be hard to pass an August wheat field and not think of how the sun sparkles in your hair."

A small smile returned to Myranda's lips at the comment.

"But I shouldn't say such things," he said, looking away. "Please, forgive me, my lady."

"There's nothing to forgive, Rory."

Their green eyes met and the temperature of the air around them seemed to lift a few degrees. Myranda felt herself take a step toward him, her heart pounding in her chest as he reached for her and took her in his arms as he had done countless times before. She watched him lean toward her and closed her eyes, tilting her head up to meet his kiss. One kiss... surely there wouldn't be any harm in that.

They were less than an inch apart when an enraged yell echoed down the stone corridor. They opened their eyes and stared at each other, and Myranda saw the flash of fear and horror in Roland's eyes before he pulled away.

"Forgive me, my lady," he said, backing away from her and staring at the ground. "I didn't mean... I shouldn't have..."

"No, no. I'm sorry. That was... completely my fault." She bit her lip, hating the suddenly uncomfortable silence. Her face burned with the heat of a dark blush and she struggled to stop the whirring of her brain. If he had kissed her, the delicate façade would have come crashing down. The gentle kiss would have become hungry in an instant and, lost in each other, they would have forgotten everything else. "Come on," she said, clearing her throat, "we should... go get Baby." Taking a deep breath and returning her thoughts to the task at hand, she walked the last few feet to the kitchen door and pushed it open.

A familiar form was standing in the middle of the kitchen floor, raging like an angry bull. Her silver hair was, as always, tied back in a severe chignon and though she was small and slight, her presence filled the large room. She waved a giant soup ladle over a pair of completely cowed elves.

"Get that bloody mutt out of the larder!" Nan yelled.

"But, mistress," the female elf, who Myranda remembered was named Cath, said, "it won't let us near!"

"If I can't get into that larder, I'll skin both of you useless elves, I swear it!"

Roland and Myranda exchanged a look. "Err... calm down, good woman," Roland said tentatively, hoping his armor was enough to protect him from the enraged old woman. "We've come to help."

Nan turned to them, her dark brown eyes blazing with fury. "You! And _you_ ," she said, pointing at Myranda. "Your bloody mongrel keeps getting into my larder! That beast should be put down!"

"I'm sorry he's bothering you, Nan," Myranda said soothingly.

"Just get him gone!" Nan said, waving the ladle toward the larder door. "I've enough to worry about with a castle full of hungry soldiers!" She turned back to the elves. "You two!" she barked. "Stop standing there like idiots! Get out of the way! That wretched creature is likely eating my beautiful roast as we speak," she muttered.

"Please calm down, Nan."

"I'll calm down once that beast is out of my larder!" the elderly woman retorted, looking back at the younger woman.

"How did he get in this time?"

"How in the blazes am I supposed to know? He up and walked through the wall, I expect! That hound isn't natural. I see it in his eyes: he does this on purpose, just to torment me!"

Myranda smiled and laughed softly at the older woman's muttering.

Nan pursed her lips and stepped behind Myranda, giving her a firm shove toward the larder door. "Go on, young lady, get him out of there right now!"

"All right," Myranda said with a slight laugh. "All right, I'm going." She opened the larder door and stepped inside, Roland following quickly on her heels to avoid a tongue-lashing from Nan.

The larder was the picture of disaster. Many of the shelves and tables had been knocked over, their contents scattered everywhere. A few sacks of wheat and other grains had large holes in their bottoms, their contents spilling halfway across the floor. Most of the uncooked meats hanging from the rafters—Nan had moved them there two years ago in an attempt to keep Baby out of the larder—were more or less intact, and the roast Nan had been so concerned about still sat untouched on one of the tables that was still upright.

Roland sighed heavily as he looked around. "Look at that mess. How did he even get in here?"

"Baby!" Myranda called. "Baby, where are you?"

The huge mabari barked excitedly, bounding out from behind one of the fallen shelving units and padding over to her, his tongue lolling and his stubby tail wagging furiously.

"There's my Baby," Myranda cooed, kneeling and scratching the hound behind the ears. "What a smart boy you are! Oh, yes, you are!"

Baby barked happily, licking her under the chin.

"Oh, encourage the hound, why don't you?" Roland muttered. "No wonder he keeps giving Nan fits."

The dog bounded away from Myranda before turning back to her and barking.

"What is it, Baby?" she asked.

He continued to bark, hopping around in a circle.

"Are you trying to tell me something?"

"Is there someone in the well?"

Myranda looked up at Roland as Baby cocked his head and whined in confusion. "What?"

Roland shrugged. "Just a thought," he said with a slight smile. "He does seem like he's trying to tell you something, though." He stopped and looked toward one of the fallen shelves. "Wait, do you hear that?"

Myranda listened for a moment, then heard it: a soft rustling. She held out her hand to Roland, motioning for him to stay where he was as she walked slowly and silently toward the shelves. Baby stalked next to her. She reached for her dagger and drew it carefully, making as little noise as possible. The rustling stopped and so did her steps, silence weighing down heavily until the sound continued. She reached slowly for a sack of barley, gripping the burlap tightly before yanking it back, ignoring how the grain spilled across the floor.

She suddenly found herself face-to-face with the biggest rat she had ever seen. Large, black eyes and sleek, dark grey fur gleamed in the dim light. Its claws were easily capable of great damage, as were its large front teeth. Even without including the tail, the rodent was nearly as long as her arm.

Myranda lashed out with her dagger, but the rat was faster, though Baby was faster still. He jumped on the pest, his jaws locking around its neck and snapping it before the creature could let out a squeak. When she was certain the thing was dead, she stepped forward and patted the dog. "Good boy."

"What is it?" Roland hadn't moved from the middle of the floor.

Myranda picked up the rodent by the tail and stood, turning and holding it up for his inspection.

"Giant rats?" Roland asked, somewhat incredulous. "It's like the start of every bad adventure tale my grandfather used to tell."

"It does seem rather ridiculous, doesn't it? Ugh, horrid things." She dropped the rat to the floor, watching in surprise as Baby picked it up and started to walk off with it. "Baby! Put that down this instant! Rory, help me."

They followed the dog back behind one of the other collapsed units in time to see him add the rat to a pile that had already been accumulated there.

"Holy Maker! There must be a dozen at least!"

"Your hound must have chased them in through their holes," Roland said. "Looks like he wasn't raiding the larder after all."

"It certainly looks that way." She knelt by the dog. "You're a good boy, aren't you, Baby? Yes you are!"

Baby barked excitedly.

"Do you think there's more of them?" she asked, looking back up at Roland.

"Maybe. We should probably check to be sure."

The three made a thorough sweep of the larder, finding and killing ten more rats to add to Baby's pile.

"Those were rats from the Korcari Wilds," Roland said.

"But that's miles away! How did they get this far north?"

He shrugged. "In any event, it's probably best not to tell Nan. She's upset enough as it is."

"I suppose I shouldn't. Though I would like to clear Baby's name."

Baby barked.

"Well, seeing as you've got him well in hand, I'll be on my way. I'm to prepare for the arrival of more of the arl's men."

Myranda frowned. "But I'll see you later?" she asked hopefully.

He looked slightly uncomfortable. "At supper, perhaps," he relented. "Now I must go." He bowed slightly to her before turning and walking from the larder.

A soft sigh escaped Myranda as she watched him go. "Oh, Baby, what am I going to do?" she asked.

Baby whined curiously.

"I almost kissed him today... or he almost kissed me." She looked down at him. "How are you supposed to just stop loving someone? Love isn't like a candle one can simply snuff out."

The hound barked conversationally.

She sighed again. "Maybe I just need to find someone else and get married. I think Arl Howe's looking to match me with Nathaniel." She looked away for a minute. "Lady Myranda Howe, Arlessa of Amaranthine," she said, tasting the name and title before looking back at the dog. "What do you think?"

Baby whined again.

Myranda laughed. "You're right. I can't see myself as a subdued housewife, either. We need more adventure, don't we?"

The dog barked and bounced around her.

"Well, come on. We've other things to do than stand around in the larder all day."

They walked out of the larder only to be met immediately by Nan, who was standing arms akimbo, glaring at Baby.

"There he is," she said accusingly, "as brazen as you please, licking his chops after helping himself to the roast, no doubt!"

"Actually," Myranda interjected, "he was defending your larder from rats. Big ones."

"W-what?" Cath stammered from near the fireplace. "Rats? Not the large grey ones?"

"They'll rip you to shreds, they will!" the other elf, Adney, said.

Nan sighed in frustration. "See? Now you've gone and scared the servants! I expect those filthy things are dead."

Myranda nodded. "Rory, Baby and I took care of it. No need to be afraid."

Nan sniffed. "I bet that dog led those rats into there to begin with!"

Baby whined pitifully at her.

"Oh, don't even start with the sad eyes! I'm immune to your so-called charms."

The dog hung his head a little before looking back up at the cook and whining again.

Nan sighed. "Here, then," she said, grabbing some scraps off of a nearby worktable. "Take these pork bits and don't say that Nan never gives you anything!" She tossed them to Baby, shaking her head and muttering. "Bloody dog." She looked back at Myranda then. "Thank you, my lady. Now we can get to work." She looked at the two loitering elves. "That's right, you two, quit standing about! Get those rats cleared out of the larder!"

Myranda helped with the cleanup until Nan chased her out of the larder, ordering her over to a large barrel of rainwater to rinse the blood from her hands, face, and hair. She scrubbed most of the spots out of her leathers as well before wetting her handkerchief and cleaning Baby. She looked up when Nan reappeared from the larder. "Do you know wh—"

"Adney, get moving with those casks!" Nan ordered. "And Cath, do you think you can serve that to the teyrn with dirt from the floor all over it?"

"Miserable old bat," Adney muttered under his breath.

"Old bat, am I?" the older woman demanded. "We've got to work double-time on supper! Sweep out the hearths, and no complaining!"

Myranda smiled and walked over to her. "Busy day?"

"Just keeping order," Nan said, turning to her. "That's why your father keeps me on. The good Maker knows I needn't take care of you anymore." A rare, purely affectionate smile crossed the older woman's lips then. "Thank you for coming to your old nanny's rescue," she said before the smile melted into her more usual stern expression. "That blasted hound is more trouble than he's worth, he is."

Baby whined curiously.

"Don't start with me," Nan said to him, a smirk threatening to lift one corner of her mouth. "You've gotten all you're getting today." She looked back at Myranda then. "But what about you, my lady? Been keeping safe and well behaved, I hope?"

"Why would I say anything but yes?" she asked innocently.

Nan let out a short bark of laughter. "Clever whelp. That mouth of yours will get you into trouble one day. Be off with you, then. Tell your brother farewell before he rides off to war."

"I will." Myranda hurried from the kitchen as Nan began shouting orders again, Baby in tow. "Let's see..." she mused aloud, "now where could Fergus be? I suppose he's up in his room saying goodbye to Oriana, don't you think?"

Baby barked in agreement.

"Right, we'll look for him there."

On her way up toward the family quarters, however, she noticed a small knot of people in the atrium, her mother amongst them. With her was a woman of similar age with shoulder-length grey hair and a young man with traces of copper in his dark brown hair.

Myranda found herself smiling as she approached the group. She only hoped that she aged as gracefully as her mother had. They looked so much alike as it was—she remembered finding a painting two years ago, a portrait of herself at about eighteen, her blonde hair still in the coiled braids and her eyes glimmering with suppressed mischief, wearing a flowing emerald gown and holding a white lacy fan. But she couldn't remember ever having the painting done, or of ever owning such a beautiful dress. When she had asked her father why she couldn't remember it, he had laughed and told her that it was because it was a painting of her mother before their wedding. Her mother's blonde hair had since turned to a glorious silver, but her emerald eyes held just as much sparkle.

"And my dear Bryce brought this back from Orlais last year," her mother was saying, showing off a stunning gold bracelet set with small round diamonds and square-cut blue-violet gemstones. "The marquis who gave it to him was drunk, I understand, and mistook Bryce for the king."

"Which just proves how deeply into his cups he was," Myranda added as she walked up to the group.

Eleanor Cousland turned and smiled at her. "Ah, here is my lovely Myranda," she said. "I take it by the presence of that troublesome hound of yours that the situation in the kitchen is handled?"

Myranda nodded. "Nan's head exploded and my hound ate the kitchen staff."

Eleanor's eyes sparkled with amusement as she looked down at the dog. "Well, at least one of us will have a decent dinner."

Baby barked happily.

The teyrna laughed a little. "Perhaps your hound left something I can feed my guests." She held out a hand toward the woman standing next to her. "Darling, you remember Lady Landra? Bann Loren's wife?"

"I think we last met at your mother's spring salon," Landra added.

"Of course," Myranda said, tipping her head graciously. "It is good to see you again, my lady."

"You're too kind, dear girl." She laughed then, her brown eyes sparkling. "Didn't I spend half the salon trying to convince you to marry my son?"

"And made a very poor case for it, I might add," the young man next to her said.

"You remember my son, Dairren?" Landra said by way of introduction. "He's not married yet either."

Dairren rolled his eyes. "Don't... listen to her," he said to Myranda. He smiled then, his brown eyes, dark like his mother's, warming. "It's good to see you again, my lady," he said, taking her hand and brushing his lips against the backs of her fingers. "You're looking as beautiful as ever."

Myranda smiled. "Flatterer," she teased, pulling her hand from his grasp and swatting him gently on the shoulder. "I see that hasn't changed from the spring." Her eyes sparkled then. "Though it is nice to know it isn't simply a byproduct of your consuming too much wine."

Dairren looked embarrassed. "I don't know what possessed me to drink so much. All I got from it was a terrible headache the entire next day."

Myranda laughed sympathetically.

"And this is my lady-in-waiting, Iona," Landra continued, gesturing to a pretty elf with long ash-blonde hair and sea blue eyes. "Do _say_ something, dear," she encouraged when the girl hesitated.

"It is a great pleasure, my lady," Iona said, dipping into a slight curtsy. "You are as pretty as your mother describes."

"You would think that would make it easier to make a match for her," Eleanor said, "not more difficult."

"Perhaps your daughter simply has a mind of her own, your Ladyship," Dairren said. "You should be proud."

"Thank you, Dairren," Myranda said. "I've been trying to tell her that for years."

"Proud doesn't get me any more grandchildren," the teyrna asserted.

Myranda smirked slightly. "I can handle my own affairs, thank you."

"All evidence to the contrary," her mother replied.

Landra laughed good-naturedly at this banter before placing a hand gently on her friend's arm. "I think perhaps I shall rest now, my dear. It's been a long day." She turned to her son then. "Dairren, I will see you and Iona at supper."

"Perhaps we'll retire to the study for now," Dairren said, looking at Iona and lifting an eyebrow at her.

Myranda noticed the look the two shared and the blush that colored Iona's cheeks. Landra may not have been aware of what was going on, but Myranda recognized the signs. She silently wished them better luck in their clandestine affair than she'd had with hers.

"Good evening, your Ladyship," Landra said, nodding to Eleanor before walking away. Dairren and Iona also bowed before leaving the teyrna and her daughter.

"I _can_ handle my own affairs, Mother," Myranda said quietly as the trio walked away. "You know that Rory and I..."

Eleanor turned cold green eyes on her daughter. "You will not speak of that again," she whispered harshly. "You swore you would never speak of it again." She sighed as a hurt expression crossed Myranda's face. "It's for the best, dear," she said gently. "You'll find someone worthy of you. Someday."

"I suppose you'd rather I marry a prince?"

"You had your chance at that. And Cailan's sons would be far too young for you."

Myranda rolled her eyes a little, smiling as she shook her head.

"You should say goodbye to Fergus while you have the chance," Eleanor said, changing the subject.

"Why can't I go with Father and Fergus?"

The teyrna frowned. "I know it's difficult to stay in the castle and watch others ride off, but we must see to our duties first." She put her hand on her daughter's shoulder, looking into the green eyes that matched her own. "You understand that, don't you?"

Myranda sighed and bowed her head in acquiescence. "Yes, I understand." She lifted her eyes again. "Girls have to take care of the house and make babies while boys get to go to war and do all the exciting things."

Her mother laughed gently at this old complaint. "Trust me, you'll get your chance for excitement soon enough. I didn't raise you like an Orlesian strumpet with no wits or skills."

"Much to Nan's dismay. She says my tongue will get me into trouble one of these days."

Eleanor laughed again. "Oh, my darling, I'll miss you while I'm gone."

"Gone?" Myranda repeated. "Are you not staying at the castle?"

"I'll be here for a few days after your father leaves. Then I'll travel with Lady Landra to her estate and keep her company for a time. Your father thinks my presence here might undermine your authority."

"I don't think so, but as you wish. It may be good for you to take a trip."

Eleanor smiled. "And here I was worried you might be nervous about running the castle alone. I needn't have been concerned."

"Well, I'll have to get used to it sooner or later, if I'm going to be a good wife for that prince you want me to find." She laughed when her mother sighed at this jibe. "Did you know there's a Grey Warden here?" she asked, remembering suddenly.

"Yes, your father mentioned that." One silver eyebrow arched at her. "You haven't gotten it into your head that you want to be recruited?"

Myranda frowned. "Father wouldn't allow it," she said, trying not to pout.

"Nor I." Eleanor smirked then. "And I do realize you didn't answer my question," she said.

A slightly sheepish look crossed Myranda's face. She might have known her mother would catch that... they were too much alike in that way.

"There's enough here at the castle to occupy you," her mother told her. "I don't need you off chasing danger like your brother."

They turned at the sound of clanking armor to see two knights wander by, their shields displaying the marching bear that was the heraldry of the arling of Amaranthine. Myranda frowned and Baby growled softly beside her.

"Myranda? What's the matter?"

Myranda shook her head. "I don't know. I just.... Suddenly I have a bad feeling about all this."

A worry line creased the teyrna's brow. "As do I. Your father and brother are marching off to fight Maker-knows-what. All the assurances in the world don't comfort me." She sighed then, resigned. "But it wouldn't help for us to take up arms and follow," she said. "Fergus and your father have their duty and we have ours."

Myranda breathed the same sigh. "Yes, Mother." She bowed her head slightly. "I should go."

Eleanor smiled softly and lifted her hand to her daughter's cheek. "I love you, my darling girl," she said gently. "You know that, don't you?"

Myranda smiled. "I love you, too."

Eleanor nodded a little. "Go do what you must, then," she said. "I will see you soon."

Myranda smiled and leaned forward to kiss her mother dutifully on the cheek before heading up to the family's living quarters. She smiled when she got there, hearing Oren asking his endless questions in the manner of six-year-old boys.

"Is there really gonna be a war, papa?" he was asking. "Will you bring me back a sward?"

"That's 'sword,' Oren," Fergus corrected his son with a slight laugh. "And I'll get you the mightiest one I can find, I promise."

Myranda reached the doorway in time to see Fergus pick up the child and hug him tightly. She smiled softly, leaning against the doorjamb as she watched the quiet, domestic scene.

"I'll be back before you know it," he said.

"I wish victory was indeed so certain," Oriana said, the words sounding almost lyrical in her Antivan accent despite the worry that colored them. "My heart is... disquiet."

"Don't frighten the boy, love," he chided gently, returning Oren's feet to the floor. "I speak the truth."

"No darkspawn could harm Fergus!" Myranda said from the doorway before Baby barked in agreement.

Fergus looked up and smiled, a glint in his dark eyes and a roguish grin on his lips, the latter of which he had inherited from their father and had caused more than one woman to swoon. "And here's my baby sister to see me off," he said.

She smirked, remembering how at one time she'd hated how he called her that. "Not such a baby anymore, you know."

"True. But you'll always be my baby sister, Myra." He turned back at Oriana. "Now dry your eyes, love, and wish me well," he said before kissing her mouth gently.

Oriana returned the soft kiss, but continued to frown when he pulled away. "You are as mortal as anyone, despite your refusal to believe."

"Now, love. No need to be grim."

"Do you really think the war will be over quickly?" Myranda asked him.

"Word from the south is that the battles have gone well," Fergus said. "There's no evidence that this is a true Blight—just a large raid."

"Could that be true?" Oriana asked, sounding hopeful.

"I'll see for myself soon enough." He smiled warmly, running one hand back through his wife's short brown hair. "Pray for me, love," he murmured, "and I'll be back within a month or two."

The Antivan woman frowned worriedly before lowering her eyes and nodding.

Myranda smiled wistfully. "I wish I could go with you," she said, voicing only half of her regret.

"I wish you could come!" Fergus told her with a grin. He sighed then in sarcastic woe. "It'll be so tiring, killing all those darkspawn myself."

"Yes, yes. Rub it in."

He chuckled. "No chance you'll loan me Baby, I suppose?"

Myranda shook her head when Baby barked. "Absolutely not." She looked down at the dog when he whined in protest. "No! If I don't get to go, neither do you."

Baby sniffed and trotted over to the fireplace to lay down in front of it.

Oriana shook her head. "In Antiva, a woman fighting in battle would be... unthinkable."

"Is that so?" Fergus asked, raising an eyebrow at her. "I always heard Antivan women were quite dangerous."

A mischievous smile lifted the corners of Oriana's mouth. "With kindness and poison only, my husband," she said coyly.

Fergus pretended to look worried and leaned toward his sister. "This from the woman who serves me my tea!" he said in a loud whisper before chuckling.

Myranda giggled. "I warned you before you married her to watch out for her."

Oriana laughed softly herself. "I recall that you did not care for me when we first met."

"I wouldn't say I disliked you," the blonde retorted.

"You simply thought me useless."

"And you thought me hopeless." She grinned. "I guess we've proven each other wrong... for the most part anyway. I suppose I'll always be fairly hopeless at sewing."

The Antivan woman smiled. "You're simply impatient, which makes your stitches too wide."

" _My_ sister?" Fergus asked in sarcastic astonishment. "Impatient?"

"Fergus!" Oriana chided as Myranda swatted him and Baby barked smugly. She turned back to her sister-in-law then. "You were starting to do better on the piece with the grey songbird."

Myranda made a face. "Oh _that_ one... a grey bird on a dark grey branch in front of a light grey sky. But that reminds me!" she said, turning to her brother excitedly. "Did you know there's a Grey Warden in the castle?"

"Really?!" Oren piped up, his eyes shining. "Was he riding a griffon?"

"Shush, Oren," the boy's mother said. "Griffons only exist in stories now."

"I'd heard that," Fergus said, answering Myranda's question. "Did he say why he's come?"

"He says he's recruiting." Her smile faded a little. "I think he's going to take Rory."

"Oh? That would be a great honor for him. You should try to be happy for him." He grinned then. "Though if I were a Grey Warden, Myra, I'd have my eye on you. Not," he added, "that Father would ever allow it."

"Oh, no. Of course not." She grinned then. "I'm his _favorite_ , you know."

Fergus laughed at the old jibe. "You're _everybody's_ favorite, baby sister... except for the knights you beat up in the training ring."

"It's their own fault for underestimating me because I'm a woman," Myranda countered. "Though they get to march off to war and I don't. But that's the other thing I needed to tell you: Father wants you to leave without him."

Her brother's face darkened. "Then the arl's men are delayed. You'd think they were all walking backwards!"

"What do you think could be keeping them?"

"I don't know... and I wish I had the time to find out." He sighed heavily. "In any event, I'd better get underway. So many darkspawn to behead, so little time!"

"Again, no need to rub it in, Fergus."

He laughed. "Off I go, then." He turned to his pretty wife. "I'll see you soon, my love."

"I would hope, dear boy, that you planned to wait for us before taking your leave?"

The Cousland siblings started at the sound of their father's voice and turned to see their parents in the doorway. The teyrn smiled and bowed slightly as he gestured for his wife to precede him into the room before following her.

Eleanor walked over to her son and leaned up to kiss him on the cheek. "Be well, my son," she told him. "I will pray for your safety every day you are gone."

Myranda put her hand on her mother's shoulder. "Don't worry, Mother. Fergus will be fine."

"I keep telling you, no darkspawn will ever best me," Fergus added.

Oriana bowed her head reverently. "The Maker sustain and preserve us all," she prayed as the Couslands around her bowed their heads as well. "Watch over our sons, husbands, and fathers and bring them safely back to us."

"And bring us some ale and wenches while you're at it!" Fergus said. "Err... for the men, of course!" he added, rubbing the place where Myranda had punched him in the arm.

"Fergus!" Oriana chided. "You would say this in front of your mother?"

"What's a wench?" Oren asked. "Is that what you pull on to get the bucket out of the well?"

"A wench is a woman that pours the ale in a tavern, Oren," the teyrn told his grandson. "Or a woman who drinks a lot of ale."

"Bryce!" Eleanor exclaimed. "Maker's breath, it's like living with a pair of small boys! Thankfully, I have a daughter." She looked over at Myranda, her smile fading when she saw the young woman shaking with suppressed laughter. "Andraste's grace," she muttered, rolling her eyes.

Fergus chuckled. "I'll miss you, Mother dear," he said, hugging her and kissing her on the cheek. He looked at Myranda then, who had regained control of herself. "You'll take care of her, Myra, won't you?"

"Mother can handle herself," she replied. "Always has."

"It's true," Fergus agreed. "They should be sending her, not me. She would scold those darkspawn back into the Deep Roads." He chuckled as his sister starting laughing.

"Well I'm glad you two find this so funny," Eleanor huffed.

"Enough, enough," Bryce said, fighting back his own quiet laughter. "Pup, you'll want to get an early night. You've much to do tomorrow."

"May I speak with you first?" she asked.

"Of course." He followed his daughter out into the corridor, where they could speak more privately. "What's on your mind, Pup?"

"Is sending all of our forces south a good idea?" she asked without preamble.

"When the king demands it," her father told her. "In fact, _not_ sending our forces south would be a distinctly bad idea."

"I know Cailan's required troops from all the nobles and refusal to oblige is treason. It's just... I have a bad feeling about it, is all."

"Don't worry, Pup. You shouldn't see many problems." His smile faded then. "But I want you to prepare the men left here. In case."

"In case of what?"

"Legends of the Blights tell of horrible things. These darkspawn once threatened many lands. If we can't hold them..." his voice trailed off and he put his hand on her shoulder. "If we can't hold them, you must prepare for the worst."

Myranda felt her spine straighten and her shoulders go back as she realized what he was asking and felt the weight of the responsibility. "I'll do my best, Father," she said. "I swear it."

Bryce nodded. "I know you will. You are a Cousland, after all." He tapped her gently on the nose. "But let's not speak of ominous things. We shall assume that all will go well and the Maker will watch over us."

The worry line returned to Myranda's brow. "Are you sure you'll be all right?"

"Your brother and I go into battle, not an afternoon tea. Who knows what will happen to us?"

"I'm just... worried."

Bryce let out a soft laugh. "You and your mother." He smiled a little. "Whatever happens, I will tell you this," he said before cupping Myranda's face gently in his hands. "You're my darling daughter, I love you, and I trust you completely to carry on the Cousland name if the worst should happen."

Myranda smiled. "Thank you, Papa," she murmured.

Bryce smiled affectionately at her before leaning forward and kissing her on the forehead. "Don't worry about me, dear girl," he said, dropping his hands from her face. "You'll have enough to occupy your mind while I'm gone." He watched as she started to chew on her lower lip, recognizing the signs of another question she was hesitant to ask. "What else is on your mind?"

"About the Grey Warden..."

"Ah," he said with a soft laugh before shaking his head. "I was wondering how long this would take." He looked back at her. "Has he asked to recruit you?"

Myranda shook her head. "He hasn't. I haven't seen him since I left the hall. I was just wondering about him."

"If a Blight is truly upon us in the south, then Grey Wardens will be needed. There is no higher calling. If it comes to that..." his voice trailed off and he pursed his lips. "If it comes to that, we can talk about it when I get back. Until then, just show him every courtesy. Duncan is a fine man, and a hero."

"I will, Father. And I'll take care of everything."

He nodded. "I know that you'll do me proud. You've grown into a sensible woman, that much is clear." He put his arm around her shoulders. "Come now. Let's spend some time with your brother before he marches south."

As the two walked back into the room, Oren ran over to Myranda.

"Mama says you're going to be watching over us while Papa is gone. Is that true, Auntie?"

"Yes, that's true, Oren," Myranda said, kneeling in front of the child.

"What if the castle is attacked? Will there be dragons?!"

"Dragons are terrible creatures, Oren," Oriana said with slight horror. "They eat people."

"Yeah!" he said excitedly, looking back at her. "I want to see one!"

Oriana shot her husband a glare. "This is your influence, Fergus."

"What?" Fergus asked innocently. "I didn't say anything!"

Oren looked back at Myranda. "Are you going to teach me to use a sword, Auntie? Then I can fight evil, too!" He lifted an invisible blade over his head. "Take that, dire bunny!" he said, slashing at the imaginary foe. "All darkspawn fear my sword of truthiness!"

Myranda looked up at Oriana. "'Truthiness'?"

"We're teaching him about honesty," the other woman explained.

"Will you teach me, Auntie?" Oren asked again.

Myranda laughed a little. "You bet! Let's go!"

"Yeah!" the child cheered as his mother grimaced.

"Fergus, there are times your family causes me great pain," she said.

Fergus chuckled softly. "Now, now. Mind your mother, Oren."

"Aww! I never get to do anything!" he pouted.

Myranda laughed again softly, standing as her brother crossed the room and scooped up the boy.

"Don't worry son," he said, giving him a quick kiss before putting him back on his feet. "You'll get to see a sword up close real soon, I promise." He looked at his sister then. "Getting sent to bed early, are we?" he said with a grin.

Myranda smirked at him. "Have fun on the long march," she said with saccharine sweetness. "In the _cold_."

"Hmm. A warm bed doesn't sound so bad now, come to think of it," Fergus said, frowning. "Maybe _I'm_ the one getting the short end of the deal." His grin returned when his sister laughed. "At any rate, I'll miss you," he said before pulling her into a hug. "Take care of everyone, Myranda," he murmured, "and be here when I get back."

"Be careful, Fergus," she said, hugging him tightly and giving him a sisterly kiss on the cheek. "And don't worry about me. What could possibly go wrong?"


	2. The Betrayal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Betrayal of the Couslands.

**Chapter 2: The Betrayal**

_"With passion'd breath does the darkness creep. It is the whisper in the night, the lie upon your sleep." ~Canticle of Transfigurations 1:5_

 

It was well after midnight when Myranda was awakened by angry barking and growling. She groaned, pulling the blanket up over her shoulder. "Baby, stop it," she muttered. "Come back over here and lie down."

But the barking didn't stop. She sat up, but the frustrated words died in her mouth when she noticed how the mabari was staring intently at the door, growling menacingly and barking before scratching at it.

"What's wrong, boy? Is someone out there?"

Baby continued to bark, the sound growing deeper as his aggression level rose.

Myranda took the hint. She slid carefully out of bed, reaching for the dagger she kept on her bedside table. After a moment's consideration, she also took up a slender knife in her left hand.

She had barely gripped the hilt of the smaller blade when the door to her room was thrown open by one of the family servants.

"My lady!" he cried. "Help me! The castle is under attack!" The rest of his words were cut off and he gasped before falling forward, felled by the arrow sticking out of his back.

Baby was out of the room like a bolt, running straight for the archer and jumping on him before tearing out his throat. Myranda was not far behind the animal, running out into the hall, mindless of the fact that she was only in a shirt, and almost straight into the arms of one of the attacking swordsmen.

"Well, well, wot 'ave we 'ere?" He grinned lecherously as he grabbed Myranda's right wrist hard before she could dance out of the way. "You don' think 'Is Lordship would mind if we 'ad a li'l fun before we killed 'er, would 'e?" he asked his comrades, sheathing his sword.

A second archer chuckled, shouldering his bow. "Well, you know what they say, what he doesn't know won't hurt us!"

The swordsman leered. "Such a pret'y thing, too. I'm gonna enjoy this."

Myranda carefully concealed the knife she held in her free hand. Her would-be rapists hadn't seen it and, like most men, they were underestimating her.

"'Ey, 'ey!" another swordsman shouted as he tried to fight off Baby. "A li'l 'elp 'ere!"

"Aw, jus' 'old 'im off for a minute," the first swordsman shouted. He pushed Myranda against the wall, meeting her glare with a triumphant smirk as he roughly fondled her. "Don' worry, sweet'eart," he said mock-consolingly, "it won' 'urt but for a minute!" He laughed then before leaning over and kissing her forcefully.

Myranda didn't fight the revolting kiss in an attempt to bide her time and find the best way to gut the pig, but his tongue in her mouth was more than she could stand. Disgusted, she bit down hard and tasted blood.

The swordsman pulled away, howling with pain. The sharp knee that made contact with his groin in the next moment had him releasing her wrist and writhing on the floor. She lifted her knife then and threw it, catching the archer between pulling an arrow from his quiver and lifting his bow before her knife buried itself into his throat. She quickly and silently thanked Fergus for teaching her that trick.

"Baby!" she called, rushing toward the other swordsman to meet his downward slash as Baby took care of the man struggling to his feet. She skillfully parried and dodged a few more blows before ducking behind the soldier and burying her dagger in the back of his neck.

The swordsman's knees buckled and he collapsed to the stone floor as Baby trotted over, covered in blood and looking quite pleased with himself as his mistress's would-be rapist lay dead and bleeding on the floor behind him.

Myranda made a face and spat, still tasting blood in her mouth. "Ugh. Men can be so disgusting."

Baby barked in agreement.

"Come on, let's armor up. This isn't the last of them, I'm sure."

She ran back into her room before tugging on her leggings, cinching them firmly shut. She heard a door in the hallway open and hurried into the rest of her clothes.

"Myranda?!"

"In here," she called to her mother, wriggling into her leather chestplate before quickly tightening the buckles. She looked up at a sudden light in the doorway to see her mother standing there in a long undershirt, a candle in her hand.

"I heard fighting and I feared the worst! Are you hurt?"

Myranda poured herself some water from the pitcher on her bedside table before tossing it back and swishing it around in her mouth, trying to wash out the horrid taste of the soldier's tongue and blood. Then she unceremoniously spit the mouthful into the fireplace. "I'm fine."

"A scream woke me up. There were men in the hall, so I barred the door."

Myranda rinsed and spit again. "What in the Maker's name is going on?!"

"Did you see their shields? Those are Howe's men!"

"What?!" Myranda brushed by her back out into the hall, kicking her would-be rapist onto his back to see his shield… which bore a bear marching across the heraldry.

"Why would they attack us?!"

Facts chased themselves around in Myranda's brain before the pieces fell into place and she realized what was happening. She turned to face her mother, her jaw set into a hard, uncompromising line and her green eyes glittering with malice. "He attacks while our troops are gone. He's betrayed Father."

Eleanor looked surprised. "You don't think Howe's men were delayed... on purpose?"

"That is exactly what I think."

The teyrna stared at her daughter for a few moments, her mind working before her own green eyes narrowed with rage and hate. "That bastard!" she breathed, the candle in her grip wavering as her hand shook with the strength of her emotion. "I'll cut his lying throat myself!"

Myranda walked over to the archer and pulled her knife from his throat, wiping it on his chestplate before sheathing it. "Just save some for me."

"Have you seen your father? He never came to bed!"

A shock of horror went through Myranda. "No, I haven't... I was in my room!"

"We must find him!"

"He's probably downstairs... and I think I'm going to need something other than my knife."

"Come with me, then," she said before rushing into her room. "Some of your father's belongings are in that trunk," she said, waving toward the trunk as she quickly found and pulled on a pair of leggings. She stripped off her nightshirt before buckling herself into a leather breastplate that was covered in light chainmail rings. "Perhaps we can salvage some things here."

"'We'?" Myranda repeated, looking up from her inspection of the weapons. "Can you still handle a weapon, Mother?"

"I'm no Orlesian wallflower!" her mother retorted. "Give me a sword and I'll fight!"

"I'd rather you take a bow," Myranda said, tossing the weapon to her.

Eleanor caught it deftly. "Stop trying to protect me, Myranda. You'll remember I taught you everything you know."

"And you were always better at archery than me. Now, please, Mother." She held out a full quiver to her. "There isn't time to argue."

She stared at her daughter for a few moments before taking the quiver. "Find yourself a dagger, darling," she said. "Then we'll look for Bryce downstairs."

"Maybe we should check on Oriana and Oren, as well."

Eleanor looked at her, a terrified expression on her face. "Andraste's mercy! What if the soldiers went into your brother's room first? Let's check on them! Quickly!"

Myranda grabbed a hefty dagger from the trunk before following her mother out the door toward her brother's room, tying the scabbard to her belt as she ran. The door to Fergus and Oriana's room was partly ajar when they reached it: a bad sign. "Oriana!" she called as she pushed the door the rest of the way open... and stopped dead at the image that greeted her, barely hearing her mother's dismayed shriek.

Oren lay on his stomach, looking as if he had been pushed down after his throat had been slashed. Oriana's face was frozen in a look of horrified grief, dead from a combination of arrow in her heart and a sword wound through her stomach.

"My little Oren!" Eleanor cried. "What manner of _fiend_ slaughters innocents?!"

Myranda shook her head in horror. "Why would they do this?!" she asked. She looked over as her mother fell to her knees. "Mother!"

"Howe is not even taking hostages," the teyrna said. She looked up at Myranda then. "He means to kill all of us!"

"Don't look, Mother."

"Oh, I'll look," Eleanor said viciously. "I'll remember this day when Howe dies screaming like the dog he is!" Her façade started to break and she fought back a sob. "Oh, poor Fergus..." She shook her head and stood. "Let's go. I don't want to see this!"

"Come on, Baby," Myranda said, headed toward the outer guest chambers. "Check on Lady Landra," she told her mother. "I'll check the other room." She walked over and pushed the door open before shutting it quickly again, feeling a dark blush rising in her cheeks. Apparently Dairren and Iona had been distracted by each other when the soldiers attacked, and had been caught by surprise. She shook her head to dislodge the image there before crossing the hall toward the room where Landra had been staying.

"Oh dear Landra," her mother was murmuring. "I'm... I'm so sorry. If she hadn't come to me... if she hadn't been here!" She looked at Myranda, obviously still fighting back tears. "Dairren?"

Myranda shook her head before putting her hand on her mother's shoulder. "We can grieve for them later. Let's see if we can't find Father now."

Eleanor nodded, pulling herself together before following her daughter out toward the atrium. "Can you hear the fighting?" she asked as they reached it, pulling her to a stop. "Howe's men must be everywhere."

Myranda looked up, listening to the sounds of the battle. "What should we do?" she asked when she lowered her eyes to her mother again.

Eleanor thought for a moment. "The front gates! That's where your father must be."

"Is there nothing else we can do?"

"I have my treasury key," her mother said. "We could go there first and take the Cousland family treasure from the vault. But it may be a dangerous path."

"That's it?" Myranda asked incredulously. "We can't just let Howe win!"

"Listen, darling, we haven't much time. If Howe's men are inside, they must already control the castle. If we can't find your father, you _must_ get out of here alive. Use the servants' entry in the larder to escape."

"But...!"

"Without you and Fergus, the entire Cousland line dies here. Do you hear me?"

"I want Howe dead!" Myranda cried.

Eleanor put her hand on her daughter's shoulder, looking into the eyes that matched her own. "Then survive," she said firmly, "and visit vengeance upon him!"

Myranda set her features and nodded. "Let's go," she said.

They fought long and hard toward the vault, finding and picking up some of their own soldiers along the way to help them. None had seen the teyrn, but thought that Ser Gilmore, who was probably still in the Hall, would know.

When they reached the guard house, Eleanor threaded past Myranda and over to the vault door. "We're getting close to the treasury... come on. We need to get the family treasure."

"I think gold's only going to weigh us down."

"Guard the door," the teyrna ordered the soldiers around them as she unlocked the door and rushed inside, Myranda following warily behind. Somewhat to her surprise, her mother bypassed all the coin and obviously valuable pieces of armor and headed straight for a rack on the far wall that held a large shield and a long, narrow sword. Reaching up, she pulled down the blade and turned back to Myranda.

"This is the Cousland family blade," she said, "first used by your ancestor Elethea Cousland when she fought with King Calenhad. This blade cannot fall into Howe's hands; it should sever his treacherous head."

Myranda took the sword reverently, wrapping her hand around the leather-wrapped hilt before she pulled it from its scabbard, admiring the slender blade and the runes that decorated it. She slid it back into its scabbard and looked back at her mother. "I'll take this. And I swear to you I'll use it to kill Howe."

She had just managed to strap the blade to her belt when an alarm was raised from the outer door. Baby barked and preceded the Cousland women out into the guardhouse to help fight off the soldiers who had found them. The group was felled quickly, and Myranda and Eleanor made their way quickly toward the Hall.

Inside they found Roland shouting orders, blood-spattered and looking battle-fatigued. "Go! Man the gate! Keep those bastards out as long as you can!"

"Rory!" Myranda called, rushing into the Hall.

The red-haired knight turned and a look of relief crossed his face. "Your Ladyship! My lady! You're both alive! I was certain Howe's men had gotten through!"

"They _did_ get through!" Myranda said.

"They killed Oriana," the teyrna said, "and Oren..." Her voice broke then and she barely managed to stifle a sob. "I can't believe..." She trailed off and managed to pull herself together. "Are you injured?"

Roland smiled a little at her. "Don't worry about me, your Ladyship," he said. "Thank the Maker you two are unharmed." He looked over his shoulder toward the front gate. "When I realized what was happening, it was all I could do to shut the gates." He looked back at them. "But they won't keep Howe's men out long!"

"We need to find Father," Myranda said. "Have you seen him?"

"When I last saw the teyrn, he'd been badly wounded. I urged him not to go, but he was determined to find you." He pointed toward the side entrance opposite the one through which they had come. "He went towards the kitchen. I believe he thought to find you at the servants' exit in the larder."

"Bless you, Ser Gilmore," Eleanor said. "Maker watch over you!"

"Maker watch over us all," he said, turning away from them toward the gate.

"Come with us," Myranda said suddenly. She looked at him imploringly when he turned back to her. "Please... please come with us."

A pained look crossed his features. "If I do that, you won't make it out before the gates fall."

She straightened her shoulders. "Then I'll help you hold the gates."

"No," he said firmly. "They won't hold... it would only delay the inevitable. Please go while you have the chance."

"Rory...!"

"Myranda." Roland smiled sadly at her. "This is my place... not yours. I swore an oath when your father knighted me that I would gladly give my life in order to defend you. And I promised you on that rainy night that I would protect you, no matter what. Let me fulfill that promise now." He lifted his hand to her face, his thumb lightly caressing her cheek. "Please," he murmured, "don't ask me to watch you die."

Myranda's green eyes widened, seeing the love she thought he'd long since killed burning softly in his eyes. "I love you," she whispered.

He looked at her for a moment before leaning in impulsively and kissing her softly and lingeringly on the lips, a kiss she returned instantly. He broke the kiss a few too-short moments later and pushed her gently away. "Now go. Get out of here while you can."

"Come on, darling," Eleanor said, putting an arm around her daughter's shoulders and steering her from the Hall.

They ran together toward the kitchen, finding no opposition. They threw open the door to the larder, which was in slightly less disarray than when Myranda had seen in that afternoon. Finally a voice and the sound of labored breathing reached their ears.

"There... you both are."

Eleanor brought her hands up to her mouth in horror when she finally spotted her husband before he collapsed to the floor. "Bryce!!"

"Father!!" Myranda cried, following her mother to where her father lay clutching a large, gaping wound in his side.

"I was... wondering when you would get here."

The two Cousland women knelt by the teyrn as Baby nosed him, whining worriedly.

"Maker's blood," Eleanor exclaimed, "what's happening? You're bleeding!"

"Howe's men... found me first," Bryce managed. "Almost... did me in right there."

"We need to get you out of here!" Myranda said.

"I... I won't survive the standing, I think."

She shook her head. "That's not true!" she said. "You'll be fine!"

Her father smiled gently at her. "Ah, my darling girl... if only will could make it so."

Her brow dropped determinedly. "Then we will stay and defend you," she said firmly. She looked at Baby. "Guard the door, Baby," she told him. "Warn us if they start to come for us."

Baby barked and padded back to the door.

Eleanor looked back at the mabari, her brow lined with her worry. "Once Howe's men break through the gate, they will find us!" She looked back at her husband. "We must go!"

Bryce looked at his daughter. "Someone... must reach Fergus," he managed. "Tell him what has happened."

A shock of fear shot through Myranda to her bones. "Maker's mercy... Howe must have something planned for him, too!"

"Bryce, no!" Eleanor said. "The servants' passage is right here! We can flee together, find you healing magic!"

"The castle... is surrounded." He shook his head, the small movement obviously taking a great deal of effort. "I cannot make it."

Baby barked, alerting them to Duncan's presence before he spoke.

"I'm afraid the teyrn is correct," he said, sheathing his sword. "Howe's men have not yet discovered this exit, but they surround the castle. Getting past will be difficult," he added as he knelt by Myranda.

Eleanor looked at him uncertainly. "You are... Duncan, then?" she asked. "The Grey Warden?"

He nodded. "Yes, your Ladyship. The teyrn and I tried to reach you sooner."

"Myranda helped me get here, Maker be praised."

Duncan looked over at Myranda. "I am not surprised."

"Are you going to help us, Duncan?" Myranda asked hopefully.

"Whatever is to be done now, it must be quick!" her mother said. "They are coming!"

Her father spoke then, pleading in a way Myranda never thought she'd hear. "Duncan... I beg you... take my wife and daughter to safety!"

"I will, your Lordship," Duncan promised. "But... I fear I must ask for something in return."

"Anything!" Bryce said.

"What is happening here pales in comparison to the evil now loose in this world," the Grey Warden said. "I came to your castle seeking a recruit. The darkspawn threat demands that I leave with one."

"I..." The teyrn looked at his daughter. "I understand."

Myranda shook her head, not believing what they were saying. "What about Rory... Ser Gilmore?"

"Truthfully, you were always my first choice," Duncan told her. He turned back to her father. "I will take the teyrna and your daughter to Ostagar, to tell Fergus and the king what happened. Then, your daughter joins the Grey Wardens."

Bryce nodded slowly. "So long as justice comes to Howe... I agree."

Duncan looked back and Myranda. "Then I offer you a place within the Grey Wardens," he said. "Fight with us."

Myranda shook her head again, nearly disgusted with the conversation's turn. "My duty is to take vengeance on Howe! My honor as a Cousland demands it!"

"We will inform the king, and he will punish Howe. I am sorry, but a Grey Warden's duties take precedence even over vengeance."

Bryce spoke then. "Howe thinks he'll use the chaos to... advance himself." He took Myranda's wrist then, his grip surprisingly strong. "Make him wrong, Pup," he said. "See that justice is done!"

Myranda looked down into her dying father's face, fighting back her tears.

"Our family... always does our duty first. The darkspawn must be defeated. You must go. For your own sake, and for Ferelden's."

Myranda bowed her head in acquiescence. "I will, Father," she said before looking back at him and placing her hand over his. "For you."

Duncan nodded once and stood. "We must leave quickly, then."

"The entrance is in that wall," Myranda said, nodding toward a dark corner, "behind the last shelving unit. One of the stones looks like it has a chink in it. If you push on that stone, the door will open."

The Grey Warden nodded and slipped away on silent feet to open the way.

Eleanor looked at her husband uncertainly. "Bryce, are you... sure?" she asked.

"Our daughter will not die of Howe's treachery," he said assuredly. "She will live, and make her mark on the world."

The teyrna was silent for a minute before obviously making a decision. "Myranda," she said, her voice brooking no argument, "go with Duncan. You have a better chance to escape without me."

"Eleanor..."

"Hush, Bryce," she said with soft firmness. "I'll kill every bastard that comes through that door to buy them time. But I won't abandon you."

A shock of horror shot through Myranda at the thought of losing not only her beloved father, but her mother as well. This was too much. "No!" she cried. "I won't let you sacrifice yourself!"

Eleanor looked at her calmly. "My place is with your father," she said. "At his side, to death and beyond."

Myranda's eyes widened and the tears she had been holding back spilled down her cheeks. "I love you both," she whispered, "so much."

"Then _live_ , darling. Become a Grey Warden and do what is right." Eleanor pulled her daughter to her and clutched her tightly for a long moment before pushing her away. "Now go. Go!"

Myranda bit her lip, hesitating. She watched as her father moved closer to his wife, wincing with pain that even the small movement caused, her heart breaking.

"I'm... so sorry it's come to this, my love," he managed, his voice choked with his regret.

"We had a good life and did all we could," she told him gently, her tears starting to fall from her eyes as she smoothed his hair. "It's up to our children now."

He looked back at his daughter, taking her hand. "Then go, Pup," he said. "Warn your brother."

Myranda ignored the loud bang that seemed to shake the very foundations, holding on to her father's hand tightly.

"And know that we love you both. You do us proud."

She felt a strong hand on her shoulder. "They've broken through the gates!" Duncan's voice said as he pulled her to her feet and away from her father. "We must go. Now!"

Myranda looked toward the door, backing toward the escape. "Baby!" she called. "Baby, come boy!"

The mabari barked and ran past her into the passage.

"Quickly," Duncan said, pushing her down the corridor after the dog.

Myranda ran, her mother's last words echoing after her as the door swung shut.

"Goodbye, darling."

 

 

They didn't stop running until they were into the hills well beyond the castle. Upon reaching the crest of one, Myranda collapsed to her knees, a wail of anguish tearing from her throat. She clutched handfuls of grass as she curled into a ball and her tears spilled to the ground, unable to contain the pain and grief a moment longer.

Baby whined into her ear, pawing her gently. Myranda looked up for a moment before wrapping her arms around him, sobbing onto his furry shoulder.

Duncan watched, concerned by the tragic picture of an obviously strong young woman crumbling under the weight of her despair. At least she had the mabari—the animal could comfort her now in a way that he could not. He knew there would be more darkness before there would be light, but he decided they were at a safe enough distance to allow her a few moments.

He turned back to look toward the castle. A fire had broken out somewhere, and half of the structure was wreathed in towering flames. He pursed his lips. The arl's men had probably found the teyrn and teyrna by now, and they would probably not long afterward discover the secret escape passage. He turned back to the sobbing young woman before touching her shoulder gently. "Come," he said softly. "We must keep moving."

Myranda sniffled a few times before slowly pulling away from Baby. She ran the back of her wrist over her eyes and sniffled again before standing slowly, keeping her head down. When she lifted her eyes to the Grey Warden, they were hard and cold and lifeless. Her jaw was set into an uncompromising line, and her very being radiated a bitter emptiness. She said nothing, but nodded curtly before following him toward the south away from the carnage surrounding her childhood home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry if it makes you cry... though the part with Rory still chokes me up.


	3. The Ruins of a Once Proud State

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Duncan, Myranda, and Baby arrive in Ostagar and Myranda meets her fellow recruits... much to her dismay.

**Chapter 3: The Ruins of a Once Proud State**

 

Three weeks passed as they traveled south around the Hinterlands of the Bannorn toward Ostagar, on the edges of the Korcari Wilds. Myranda refused to speak during the entire journey, keeping a stony silence with her emotionless façade. She ate without tasting the food handed to her, rested only when her body demanded it of her. Many of her nights she spent awake, staring up at the moon or into the campfire, terrified of sleep and the nightmares it brought. The only soul to whom she showed any affection was Baby, who guarded her fiercely. But even this affection was given in a detached manner, without smiles or words.

As they got closer to the outpost, Duncan started to tell Myranda some of the history of their chosen battlefield, explaining how the Tevinter Imperium had built Ostagar to prevent the Wilders from invading the northern lowlands. "It's fitting we make our stand here," he told her as they approached the ancient city, "even if we face a different foe within that forest."

Myranda looked at him, one eyebrow raised in a question.

"The king's forces have clashed with the darkspawn several times, but here is where the bulk of the horde will show itself."

She nodded mutely.

"There are only a few Grey Wardens within Ferelden at the moment, but all of us are here. This Blight must be stopped, here and now. If it spreads to the north, Ferelden will fall."

Myranda looked up at the crumbling walls of the once great city, doubting how well they would hold up to an army of darkspawn, but saying nothing.

"Ho there, Duncan!"

The voice startled Myranda from her thoughts. She lowered her eyes from the walls and aged towers to see a handsome young man with long blond hair and clad in golden armor walking toward them. An entourage of about a dozen soldiers followed him.

"King Cailan!" Duncan said in surprise, taking the young man's hand when it was held out to him. "I didn't expect a..."

"A royal welcome?" Cailan finished with a smile. "I was beginning to worry you'd miss all the fun!"

A tiny smirk pulled at the corner of the Grey Warden's mouth. "Not if I could help it, your Majesty."

"Then I'll have the mighty Duncan at my side in battle after all!" the king said. "Glorious!" He turned to Myranda then, who was staring at him critically through narrowed eyes. "The other Wardens told me you've found a promising recruit," he said to Duncan. "I take it this is she?"

Duncan glanced at Myranda. "Allow me to introduce you, your Majesty," he offered, not expecting the young woman's reticence to end now.

"No need, Duncan," Cailan said, waving his hand dismissively.

Myranda watched as he grinned charmingly at her, his crystalline blue eyes sparkling. She heard Baby start to growl protectively and lay her left hand gently on his head.

"You are Bryce's youngest, are you not?" the king asked, taking up her right hand. "I don't think we've ever actually met."

Myranda fought back a sneer and snatched her hand away. How _dare_ he pretend this was just some casual meeting at court! "Are you not even aware my father is dead?" she asked venomously, her voice harsh from lack of use.

The young king looked shocked. "Dead?! What do you mean? Duncan, do you know anything about this?" he demanded, turning toward the Grey Warden.

"Teyrn Cousland and his wife are dead, your Majesty," Duncan said. "Arl Howe has shown himself a traitor and overtaken Highever Castle. Had we not escaped, he would have killed us and told you any story he wished."

Cailan had turned away from them as Duncan explained, and now he shook his head slowly in disbelief. "I... can scarcely believe it!" he said. "How could he think he would get away with such treachery?" He turned and looked back at Myranda. "As soon as we are done here, I will turn my army north and bring Howe to justice. You have my word."

"There isn't anything you can do sooner?" she asked.

"Howe knows his actions will cost him his life. But I'll need an army to bring him to justice." He frowned. "No doubt you wish to see your brother," he said. "Unfortunately, he and his men are scouting in the Wilds."

"When will he return?"

"Not until the battle is over, I fear. Until then, we cannot even send word."

A fresh wave of fear washed through Myranda. "But he may be in danger!" she cried.

"We are all in danger, my friend. Nothing can be done until your brother returns." He shook his head a little. "I apologize, but there is nothing more I can do. All I can suggest is that you vent your grief against the darkspawn for the time being."

Myranda closed her eyes, forcing her feelings back into their place and retrieving her emotionless mask. "So long as Howe pays," she said flatly, opening her eyes to regard the king coldly, "I'm happy."

Cailan looked uncomfortable with her sudden iciness. "I'm sorry to cut this short, but I should return to my tent." He made a face. "Loghain waits eagerly to bore me with his strategies."

Duncan spoke then. "Your uncle sends his greetings," he said to Cailan, "and reminds you that Redcliffe forces could be here in about a week."

Cailan laughed. "Eamon just wants in on the glory!" he said dismissively. "We've won three battles against these monsters and tomorrow should be no different."

Myranda narrowed her eyes. "You sound very confident of that," she said evenly.

The king grinned at her. "Overconfident, some would say. Right, Duncan?" he asked as he laughed.

Duncan frowned. "Your Majesty, I'm not certain the Blight can be ended quite as... quickly as you might wish."

"I'm not even sure this is a true Blight. There are plenty of darkspawn on the field, but alas, we've seen no sign of an archdemon."

The Grey Warden's eyebrow lifted slightly. "Disappointed, your Majesty?"

"I'd hoped for a war like in the tales!" Cailan said. "A king riding with the fabled Grey Wardens against a tainted god!" He sighed in slight disappointment. "But I suppose this will have to do."

Myranda fought to keep from rolling her eyes and snarling at this idiot who was her king. Thank the Maker she hadn't married the man. She'd have been a widow inside of a year.

"Now I must go before Loghain sends out a search party." He nodded slightly to them. "Farewell, Grey Wardens."

Duncan bowed reverently. Myranda said and did nothing. They watched the royal escort cross the long bridge toward the city before Duncan turned to Myranda. "What the king said is true," he said. "They've won several battles against the darkspawn here."

Myranda's eyes narrowed shrewdly. "Yet you don't sound very reassured."

His shoulders dropped slightly in a subtle show of apprehension before waving her toward the bridge, falling into step with her. "Despite the victories so far, the darkspawn horde grows larger with each passing day. By now, they look to outnumber us." He shook his head. "I know there is an archdemon behind this. But I cannot ask the king to act solely on my feeling."

"You could if he were not such a fool," Myranda muttered under her breath.

"Hm?"

"What would you have him do?"

"Wait for reinforcements," he said simply. "We sent a call out west to the Grey Wardens of Orlais, but it will be many days before they can join us." He pursed his lips slightly—another subtle sign of his exasperation with the situation. "Our numbers in Ferelden are too few. We must do what we can and look to Teyrn Loghain to make up the difference." He looked at her. "To that end, we should proceed with the Joining ritual without delay."

Myranda's eyebrow quirked upward. "Joining ritual?"

"Every recruit must go through a secret ritual we call the Joining in order to become a Grey Warden. The ritual is brief, but some preparation is required. We must begin soon."

She nodded once, though she wasn't satisfied with the answer. He was hiding something from her. "What do you need me to do?"

"Feel free to explore the camp here as you wish," he said as they reached the other side of the bridge. "All I ask is that you do not leave it for the time being."

"Anything else?"

"There is another Grey Warden in the camp by the name of Alistair. When you are ready, seek him out and tell him it's time to summon the other recruits."

"Alistair. Got it."

"Your hound can stay with me while I attend to some business."

Myranda nodded and looked down and her mabari. "Behave," she ordered the dog.

Baby barked happily.

"The Grey Warden encampment is on the western side of the city, behind the king's tent," Duncan said. "You will find us there, should you need to."

"Fine." She watched Duncan walk away with Baby before turning away to head into the city herself. There was no need to 'explore the camp' as Duncan had suggested. The sooner she found this Alistair, the sooner they could begin the Joining... whatever it was. She paused as the guard at the east gateway hailed her.

"You must be the Grey Warden recruit that Duncan brought," he said.

Myranda nodded.

"This place hasn't seen such bustle in centuries, I'll wager. Need a hand getting anywhere?"

"I'm looking for a Grey Warden named Alistair," she told him.

The guard looked thoughtful for a moment. "Try heading north," he said finally. "I think he was sent with a message to the mages."

"Thank you. I'll be on my way."

The guard saluted her sharply. "Good luck to you, then," he said.

She nodded her thanks and continued through the ancient gateway into the city.

Ostagar was a riot of sights, sounds, and smells. The loud, incessant barking from the kennels indicated a small legion of mabari, eager for food and exercise. Mixed in with the barking was the clanging of swords and armor as soldiers wandered here and there and the higher pitched ting of blacksmith hammers against steel. Nearby, a Chantry cleric stood on a small platform near the middle of the courtyard, administering to a small knot of men. The platform may as well have been a stage for the dramatic way she was giving her glory speech, something Myranda found increasingly ridiculous the longer she listened, though the men seemed to revel in it. One corner of the city seemed to be given over to housing mages, their encampment ringed by stoic and statuesque knights, their chestplates engraved with a symbol of the flaming sword of Andraste: templars. The smell of mud and campfire smoke, along with other, more unpleasant odors, hung over everything like a foul miasma.

"It's quite something, isn't it?"

Myranda turned at the voice to see an older woman in dun colored robes looking at her. She was leaning against a tree that had stubbornly pushed its way up through the broken flagstones, her arms crossed over her chest and an amused smile on her lips.

"You are Duncan's newest recruit, are you not?" she went on. "He's not a man easily impressed. You should be proud."

Myranda raised an eyebrow. Was this a fellow Grey Warden?

"Allow me to introduce myself," the woman said. "I am Wynne, one of the mages summoned by the king."

"I am Myranda," she replied, nodding slightly.

"Well met," Wynne said, returning her nod, "and good luck to you on the battlefield. To us all, in fact."

"Will you be fighting beside the king?"

"Not precisely. The Grey Wardens will be on the front lines, not the mages." She shrugged slightly. "Still, we have our parts to play. To defeat the darkspawn, we have to work together." She smirked then. "It's not an idea everyone seems able to grasp."

"Do you know much about darkspawn?" Myranda asked.

"Some. Do you? Do you know about the connection between them and the Fade, for example?"

Myranda gave her a suspicious look. "I know the Fade is where you go when you dream," she said slowly.

Wynne nodded. "Any time your spirit leaves your earthly body, whether it's to dream or to die, it passes into the realm we call the Fade. It's home to many spirits, some benevolent, others far less so. At the heart of the Fade lies the Black City."

Myranda crossed her arms over her chest as she listened.

"Some say the Black City was once the seat of the Maker. But when mages from the Tevinter Imperium found a way into the City, it was tainted with their sin. That taint transformed those men, turning them into twisted reflections of their own hearts. And the Maker cast them back to the earth, where they became the first darkspawn." She smiled a little. "At least, that's what the Chant of Light says."

"And is that true?"

"It may be allegory, meant to teach us that our own evil causes human suffering. Or it may be true. It is as good an explanation as any, for now." Then she laughed softly to herself. "But I'm certain Duncan has more for you to do than talk to me."

Myranda nodded. "I should go. Good luck to you."

"And to you, child."

She started to walk away and paused, a thought occurring to her. "Have you seen a Grey Warden named Alistair, by chance?" she asked, turning back to the mage.

Wynne shook her head. "I'm afraid not. My apologies."

The younger woman sighed. "Oh, well. Thank you." With that, she continued toward the northern part of the encampment, searching for anyone that may be the Grey Warden.

A tent in a corner of the camp near the smiths that was littered with weapons and other supplies caught her eye and she found her steps taking her there. She hadn't been able to acquire a bow during the trip, and she had the feeling she may need one. A burly, balding man of about forty turned to her as she approached.

"Have you seen an elf running about?" he asked. "Young woman, red hair? Carrying a suit of chain mail?"

Myranda shook her head once. "No."

"Blast it, where did she go? That suit better be patched up when she gets back, or by the Maker I'll..." He clenched his fists before taking a deep, relaxing breath and looking back at Myranda. "Ah, pardon my manners. My troubles are no concern of yours, I'm sure. I'm the quartermaster," he said by way of introduction. "Did you come for supplies?" He tried not to let his doubt slip into his voice. This young woman was already armed to the teeth with a sword strapped to her back as well as a slender knife and a dagger on each hip. He pitied the man foolish enough to stand in her way.

"I'm in need of a longbow."

The quartermaster nodded. "Take a look around," he said, waving his arm toward the weapons. "Let me know what you'd like."

She nodded her thanks and stepped by him to examine the bows. She did have some coin, thanks to a rather stupid group of bandits that had tried to rob her and Duncan on their way south, though it wasn't much. But she needed a bow. She picked up a few before replacing them almost immediately as she determined their balance wasn't quite right or that they were too heavy. She tested the draw on three of the bows she found before finally deciding on one with a leather handgrip and moving to examine the six quivers of arrows leaning against a partially collapsed pillar. "Is there somewhere I can test the bow?" she asked as she pulled an arrow from each of the quivers to examine the fletching and the grain of the wooden shafts.

"Certainly, my lady," the quartermaster replied, impressed by the young woman's obvious shrewdness. She knew her bows and how to choose one. "There's a target around here," he said, steering her around to the other side of the statue.

Myranda picked up one of the quivers and slung it over her shoulder as she rounded the corner to face the battered target. She quickly drew an arrow and put it to the string before pulling back and firing. The arrow flew mostly straight, burying just to the right of the large black dot that marked the middle of the target. She pursed her lips in frustration, pulling another arrow from the quiver and placing it to the string. She drew back slowly, taking careful aim before firing again. Again the arrow embedded itself just to the right of center.

"Try these," the quartermaster said, offering her a quiver she hadn't seen amongst the others. This one was made of dark, finished leather that had beautifully decorative yet tasteful lacing at the top and bottom. It was also embossed with the dual rampant mabari crest that was the heraldry of the kingdom. She eyed the quartermaster suspiciously before exchanging the quiver she had for the prettier one.

"Those arrows are of the highest quality," he said in answer to her unasked question. "You should find them much more to your liking."

She nodded and pulled one of the arrows from the new quiver, placed it to the string, pulled back, and fired. This time, the arrow few perfectly straight into the center of the target. She quickly drew another arrow and fired. Again, it flew straight, striking the target less than an inch from the first. A third arrow buried itself into the target between the other two. Myranda allowed a satisfied smirk to pull at one corner of her lips. "I'll take them," she said as she retrieved the arrows from the target. "The bow as well."

The quartermaster nodded. "The bow is twenty-four silver and sixty-six copper," he said. "The arrows are twenty-six and forty."

Myranda pulled out her money pouch and picked out a gold coin. "I also need the quiver," she said as she held out the coin.

He looked as if he were about to object, then took the coin. There would be no arguing with her. If she wished to pay extra for the quiver, so be it. "Thank you, my lady," he said. "Good luck to you on the field."

She nodded her thanks as she strapped on the quiver and turned, shouldering the bow as she walked away.

She was about to walk by a young man with dark hair who was obviously a degenerate attempting to romance an uninterested-looking woman, but his mentioning of the Grey Wardens made her pause.

"I'll be joining the ranks soon enough," he was saying. "Then maybe we can talk about getting together."

The soldier curled her lip in quiet disgust, a look that Myranda mirrored.

"So, any last wishes I can help fulfill before you head into battle?" the sleazy and slightly dense fellow asked suggestively. "Life is fleeting, you know. That pretty face could be decorating some darkspawn spear this time tomorrow. ...Shall I take that quiet glare as a no?" He sighed and shrugged. "Ah, well. Too bad." He turned as the soldier walked away in revulsion, his eyebrows lifting with interest when he spotted Myranda. "Well," he said, "you're not what I thought you'd be."

Green eyes narrowed. "What's that supposed to mean?" she demanded.

"Oh," he said casually, waving a dismissive hand, "me and ser knight were just betting on what the third recruit would be. Not a woman... yet here you are." He ran his eyes leisurely down her figure, missing the sneer that crossed her lips. "The name's Daveth. It's about bloody time you came along," he said with a slight chuckle. "I was beginning to think they cooked this ritual up just for our benefit."

Myranda looked at his hand when he held it out to her and crossed her arms over her chest. "What do you know about this ritual?"

Daveth frowned a little and withdrew his hand slowly. "I happened to be sneaking around camp last night, see," he said conspiratorially, "and I heard a couple of Grey Wardens talking. So I listen in for a bit. I'm thinking they plan to send us into the Wilds."

Myranda lifted one eyebrow fractionally. "The Wilds?" she repeated.

"We're right on the northern edge of the Korcari Wilds here. Miles and miles of savage country." He jerked his thumb toward the west. "My home village isn't far," he said, "and I grew up on tales about the Wilds. Even been in there a few times." He shook his head a little. "Scary place."

Myranda looked in the direction he had indicated, her eyes narrowed slightly in thought. "Why would they send us into the forest?" she mused.

"Sounds like some kind of test. Maybe we'll hunt us a souvenir or two."

She turned back to him. She hadn't expected an answer, and, truthfully, hadn't wanted one.

"It's all too secretive for me," Daveth went on. "Makes my nose twitch. But I guess we'll have to wait and see." He shrugged a little. "Like we have a choice." He reached out and put a hand consolingly on her shoulder. "But don't you worry your pretty head about that. I'm sure it'll be fine."

Myranda looked at his hand before looking back at him coldly. He was going to need straightening out, she could already tell.

"Anyway, I expect it's time to get back to Duncan. That's where I'll be if you need me for anything." He winked in an attempt to be charming before walking toward the Grey Wardens' encampment.

Myranda growled as she continued toward the eastern part of the camp. So that was one of her fellow recruits. Perhaps he would be the victim of a tragic 'accident' in the Korcari Wilds if the Grey Wardens did indeed send them into the forest.

She passed through what at one point may have been a doorway out of the courtyard into a small building and wrinkled her nose at the stench of disease and open wounds. She looked around at the sea of injured men and the few priests tending to them. Well, if the Grey Warden she was looking for was here in the infirmary, she would have no use for him.

Near the doorway, a small cluster of men stood around a priest who had stationed herself under a small yew tree. She had obviously been offering some words of comfort, and from the sound of things was just wrapping up her sermon.

"In the name of Andraste, I bless you today," she said. "May you find favor in the Maker's eyes. So let it be."

There was a low chorus of "So let it be" that answered her before the knot broke up. One of the men, a knight whose shield held the heraldry of the arling of Redcliffe, spotted her and headed toward her.

"Greetings," he said when he was close enough, bowing slightly to her. "Ser Jory is my name. I hail from Redcliffe, where I served as knight under the command of Arl Eamon." He straightened then. "You are the third recruit we've heard about?"

There was no mistaking the doubt in his voice. "I am."

"I was not aware they permitted women to join the Grey Wardens," Ser Jory said. "None of those I've seen thus far have been."

Myranda scowled at him. She was growing tired of men thinking she couldn't do anything just because she was a woman. "I can handle myself," she said acidly.

He looked startled by the venom in her voice. "You obviously impressed Duncan, and that's enough for me," he said, obviously trying to smooth her ruffled feathers.

She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him.

"I hope we're both lucky enough to eventually join the Wardens. Is it not thrilling to be given that chance?"

Myranda fought to keep from rolling her eyes. _'Lovely,'_ she thought. _'My fellow recruits are a lecherous degenerate and a starry-eyed buffoon.'_

"I'm curious about the Joining ritual, though," Jory was saying. "Has anyone told you about it?"

She shrugged. "It's all a big secret, apparently."

"I never heard of such a ritual. I had no idea there were more tests after getting recruited."

"Perhaps it's a way to make sure they're not wasting their time."

Jory looked uncomfortable at this reply. "I suppose since you're finally here I'd best get back to Duncan," he said, easing away from her. "I shall see you there."

Myranda watched him go for a minute before shaking her head. By Andraste's flaming sword, if she got through the day without killing someone it would be nothing short of a miracle. She hoped the two recruits had some fighting skills, otherwise they would be less than useless. She closed her eyes and sighed. _'Maker grant me strength and patience,'_ she prayed. _'I'm going to need them.'_ With that, she turned and walked out of the infirmary to seek out the Grey Warden Duncan had mentioned.


	4. A Breath of Fresh Air

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introducing a character who needs no introduction.

**Chapter 4: A Breath of Fresh Air**

_"A meeting between two beings who complete one another, who are made for each other, borders already, in my opinion, on a miracle." ~A. H._

 

Myranda sighed, climbing the stairs into another of the ruined buildings. This one had more to it than the last: it looked to have been a great Tevinter hall or banquet room... most of the impossibly high grand arches still stood, though the vaulted ceiling had for the most part toppled into the building and had, at some later date, been removed. But she had no time to admire the architecture. She needed to find the Grey Warden. Another sigh escaped her. How had she thought to find someone she'd never seen before? Wandering around had somehow allowed her to bump into the other two recruits—idiots, both... Maker help her if these were the types of people she'd have to fight with—maybe it would be the same with the Grey Warden. The guard had mentioned he was delivering a message somewhere in the northern part of the camp... a rather menial assignment. Hopefully that wasn't a sign of this Grey Warden's competence level. What was the name Duncan had told her...?

The sound of an angry voice broke her reverie and drew her up another set of stairs on her right.

"What is it now?" an older man, obviously a mage by his robes, was demanding of a young knight. "Haven't Grey Wardens asked more than enough of the Circle?"

"I... simply came to deliver a message from the revered mother, ser mage," the younger man replied. "She... desires your presence."

"What her Reverence 'desires' is of no concern to me," the mage scoffed. "I am busy helping the Grey Wardens—by the king's orders, I might add!"

The knight smirked at this. "Should I have asked her to write a note?"

"Tell her I will not be harassed in this manner!"

"Yes, _I_ was harassing _you_ by delivering a message."

Myranda found herself smirking slightly, crossing her arms over her chest. Oh, she liked this knight already.

"Your glibness does you no credit," the mage said to the younger man.

"Here I thought we were getting along so well," the knight replied sarcastically. "I was even going to name one of my children after you... the _grumpy_ one."

"Enough!" the mage nearly shouted. "I will speak to the woman if I must!" He turned to descend the stairs behind Myranda, brushing roughly by her. "Get out of my way, fool!"

Myranda glared after him for a moment before turning back to the younger man.

"You know," he said to her, "one good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together."

She smiled darkly. "I know exactly what you mean."

"It's like a party!" he went on with sarcastic enthusiasm. "We could all stand in a circle and hold hands! _That_ would give the darkspawn something to think about." His brow knitted suddenly as he looked at her. "Wait, we haven't met, have we? I don't suppose you happen to be another mage?"

"Don't worry," Myranda said, holding up one hand, "I'm no mage."

"Less being yelled at for me, then." He paused, considering her. "Though the day is still young."

That did it. She liked this one.

"Wait, I _do_ know who you are!" he said with an air of snapping his fingers. "You're Duncan's new recruit, from Highever."

Myranda sighed. "Yes, I'm the new recruit, though I'd like to know how everyone seems to know who I am."

"Duncan sent word." He smiled a little. "He spoke quite highly of you."

"I see." Her eyes widened a little as she remembered. "The carrier pigeon."

"Pardon?"

"I saw him one morning two weeks ago releasing a carrier pigeon that took off to the south. I suppose the message was about me."

"Must have been, because that's how word came to us," the knight agreed. "Anyway, I should have recognized you right away. I apologize."

"And you must be Alistair."

"Did Duncan mention me?" he asked. "Nothing bad, I hope."

His likeness to a puppy was cute... endearing, almost. And, somehow, he looked familiar. Why couldn't she place it?

"As the junior member of the order, I'll be accompanying you when you prepare for the Joining," Alistair said.

"Pleased to meet you," she said, holding out her hand. "My name is Myranda. Myranda Cousland."

"Right!" he said. "That was the name." He reached out and shook her hand, holding on to it afterward as he studied her face. "You know..." he said slowly, "it just occurred to me that there have never been many women in the Grey Wardens. I wonder why that is?"

One corner of Myranda's mouth lifted as she pulled her hand from his. Unlike Daveth, he'd made the comment without any untoward insinuation—he sounded purely and simply curious—so her hackles did not lift as they had when Daveth had made nearly the same observation. Besides that, he seemed much more innocent than Daveth. "So you want more women in the Wardens, do you?" she asked.

"Would that be so terrible? Not that I'm some... drooling lecher or anything. _Please_ stop looking at me like that," he said, blushing as her eyebrow lifted and a knowing gleam entered her eye.

Myranda snorted in a soft laugh. Yes... definitely an innocent.

"So, I'm curious," he went on, deciding to change the subject. "Have you ever actually encountered darkspawn before?"

She shook her head. "No, I haven't." She looked at him then. "Have you?"

He nodded. "When I fought my first one, I wasn't prepared for how monstrous it was." He looked decidedly uncomfortable. "I can't say I'm looking forward to encountering another."

"That bad?"

"And worse." He shook his head. "Anyhow, whenever you're ready let's head back to Duncan. I imagine he's eager to get things started."

Myranda pointed over her shoulder toward the stairs. "That argument I saw… what was it about?"

"With the mage?" Alistair shook his head again ruefully. "The Circle is here at the king's request and the Chantry doesn't like that one bit. They just _love_ letting mages know how unwelcome they are."

"I imagine so."

"Well, it puts me in a bit of an awkward position," he said. "I was once a templar."

Myranda was surprised. "You were a mage-hunter?" Apparently there were untold depths to him... he didn't seem the type.

"Not that that's all templars _do_ , but... yes. The Chantry raised me until Duncan recruited me six months ago." He sighed softly. "I'm sure the revered mother meant it as an insult—sending me as her messenger—and the mage picked _right_ up on that. I never would have agreed to deliver it, but Duncan says we're all to cooperate and get along." He smiled a bit, chagrined. "Apparently, they didn't get the same speech."

"Obviously not." She sighed softly. "Anyway, I look forward to traveling with you," she said. She'd said it to be polite, but she found that some part of her actually was looking forward to it. Curious. Perhaps it was just his refreshingly sarcastic humor.

"You do?" He sounded genuinely surprised. "Huh. _That's_ a switch."

Myranda felt the smirk returning to her lips.

"If you have any questions, let me know," Alistair offered. "Otherwise, lead on!"

"Surely we can walk and talk at the same time?"

"Of course," he said, motioning toward the stairs behind her.

"Shall we start with small talk? Tell me a little about yourself."

"As I said, I was trained as a templar before Duncan recruited me about six months ago. The Chantry raised me and becoming a templar was a decision made for me a long time ago."

Myranda looked over at him.

"Duncan saw I wasn't happy, and figured my training against mages could double for fighting darkspawn. Now here I stand, a proud Grey Warden." He shrugged slightly. "The grand cleric wouldn't have let me go if Duncan hadn't forced the issue. I'll always be grateful to him."

"You didn't want to join the Chantry?" she asked. It seemed like there was more to this story than what she was getting.

"It just... wasn't for me. I believe in the Maker well enough, but I never wanted to devote my life to the Chantry."

"Fair enough," Myranda said, nodding slowly. "I have a few questions for you, if I may."

"What about?" he asked.

"Will you tell me about Duncan?"

Alistair looked at her, surprised. "Didn't he tell you anything?"

"I... didn't ask."

"Well, Duncan is the leader of the Grey Wardens in Ferelden… which he would say doesn't mean much, as there aren't many of us here. Yet."

"You're expecting more?"

"Well, there's you and the other two recruits, of course... you've met them?"

"I have." She fought back the acid that threatened to creep into her voice at the mention of the two fools that were her fellow recruits.

"Well there's the three of you, and I thought I overheard one of the other Wardens say that Cailan's asked for help from the Orlesian Wardens."

"Ah. I see."

"But beyond being the leader of the Grey Wardens, Duncan's a good man. A good judge of character. I owe him a lot." He looked at her. "What about you? What do you think of him?"

"I owe him as well," Myranda said softly, not lifting her eyes from the ground. "He saved me."

"That sounds familiar."

Myranda looked over at him. It would serve no purpose to disabuse him of the thought that his salvation was equal to hers. He had merely faced a life of unhappiness; her fate would have been certain death. She sighed heavily and said nothing, returning her eyes to the ground.

"He's done the best he can with what little he has... and that includes me, I guess."

"Mmm."

Alistair was disturbed by this sudden change in her—the gloomy reticence that seemed a shadow of what lay behind what he could tell was a wall of slightly suspicious caution, colored with sarcasm. She seemed like a good enough person, but there was a darkness to her that he couldn't grasp.

Myranda sighed again before pushing the dreary thoughts from her for the moment. "Will you tell me about the Grey Wardens?"

"What would you like to know?"

"I'm not sure I know anything about them," she admitted.

"Well, let's see. Surely you've heard of Weisshaupt Fortress? The great aerie carved into the white cliffs far off in the Anderfels?"

She shook her head. "I'm afraid not."

"That's where the Grey Wardens once kept their griffons," he explained. "The griffons died out, however, and our numbers have dwindled since the last Blight. There's only a handful left in Ferelden. A few more in other nations."

"Where are all the Grey Wardens now?"

"The others are camped with the king's soldiers in the valley. The king's given us a position of honor at the vanguard, despite our small numbers." He smirked, darkly. "I think Cailan is actually excited to ride into battle with us," he said, a hint of something acidic creeping into his voice. "Maybe he thinks that's what his father would've done?"

"Maybe he does. Though one never knows what the king is thinking." _'If he thinks at all,'_ she added mentally. "So the Grey Wardens have the right to recruit anyone?"

Alistair nodded. "King Maric reaffirmed the power the Grey Wardens were given during the Blights. In practice, though, we can't conscript too often without hurting our cause. We were exiled from Ferelden once," he added, "best not to let that happen again."

She mulled over this information for a few quiet moments. "This Blight Duncan mentioned..."

Alistair smiled slightly. Knowingly. "Of course."

"What exactly _is_ a Blight? Where do darkspawn come from?"

"You want the Chantry's version or the truth?"

She looked over at him, intrigued by his answering question. "What is the Chantry's version?" Wynne had given her scant details, and surely, being raised in the Chantry, he'd tell more of the story.

"According to the Chant of Light," he began, "the Maker imprisoned the Old Gods underground long ago as punishment for tricking mankind into worshipping them. The Old Gods still whispered to some men, and taught them magic. These men became the magisters of the Tevinter Empire."

Myranda stopped and stared at him in awe. He'd obviously done this a few times before... it was incredible to listen to.

"The magisters used their gift to enter the Golden City, tainting it and themselves. They were cast out by the Maker and became the first darkspawn. They fled underground, bringing their taint to their gods. The tainted Old Gods were the archdemons, who rose from their prisons and led the darkspawn against the world."

She stared, nearly openmouthed before regaining her senses. "And the truth?" she asked.

Alistair shrugged. "The truth is, we don't really know. They come up from the ground and that's as far as we've gotten."

"That's a rather anti-climatic finish after the way you told the Chantry's version," she accused, though gently.

"Sorry. I'll work on it for you."

Myranda snorted softly. "So how do Grey Wardens defeat Blights?"

"We chop off the snake's head," Alistair said.

"You make it sound so simple."

"It's the only way," he said with a slight smile and a shrug. "According to the texts, the most famous Grey Warden leader, Garahel, killed the archdemon Andorhal in personal combat at the Battle of Ayesleigh to end the last Blight. Without the archdemon to command them, the darkspawn flee back underground."

The blonde woman nodded. "How did anyone even know about this Blight?" she asked.

"The Grey Wardens keep watch. We... feel the darkspawn when they come. You'll understand after the Joining, if you s—" he cut himself off and glanced over at her. "Well, you'll understand."

Myranda stopped, narrowing her eyes at him. 'If.' They were hiding something about the Joining, Duncan and this Alistair. What was it?

Alistair shifted under her intense gaze. That look was worthy of the revered mother, though in a full competition, his bet would be on this woman. There was something about her eyes—twin chips of emerald green ice—that was unnerving, and could probably make the strongest of men cower away from her. He went on quickly, trying to distract her. "Not to mention people start to notice when darkspawn pour out of the Wilds and taint everything around them. Just a guess." She continued to stare at him with that piercing, soul-searching look. "You want to ask me about something else?" he offered.

"The Joining ritual."

Alistair sighed. He might have guessed he wouldn't get out so easily. "I wish I could tell you more," he said apologetically. "Maybe ask me again after Duncan speaks to you about it."

Myranda stared at him a moment longer before nodding, letting it pass for now. Whatever it was, it made Alistair uncomfortable, which meant it couldn't be a good thing. "Just how many darkspawn are out there?" she asked, resuming her winding path around the camp.

"Thousands?" Alistair offered, causing the young woman to look over at him in surprise. "Tens of thousands? They've had centuries to build up their numbers."

"Maker's blood," Myranda said as she shook her head. "I had no idea."

"I'm not sure anyone has."

"So what about the upcoming battle?"

"The one tomorrow? I'll tell you, it's Teyrn Loghain we should be looking to win it, not the king. The teyrn is planning the strategy." His features turned sour. "Cailan just wants his place in history." He caught her looking at him with one eyebrow lifted in interest and realized what he was saying. "Errrr, that's my opinion, anyway. I guess I should be thankful the king favors us Grey Wardens." His voice trailed off slightly as he stopped and lifted his eyes to look over her shoulder. "But I know who's keeping the lid on the pot."

Myranda followed his gaze to the king's tent, the flaps closed with two guards keeping their straight-backed vigil. She narrowed her eyes. "What are the chances of success?" she asked softly.

"I'm sure Teyrn Loghain has the battle planned to the last detail. Still... no Blight has ever been defeated with so little cost."

They stared at the large royal tent for a few more moments before, as if at an unspoken cue, they both turned away at the same time.

"Why is it happening here, of all places?" Myranda asked, turning the conversation away from the king and the strategy proper.

"We're at the edge of the Korcari Wilds, the eye of the Blight's storm, right where the horde will be coming. Ostagar itself is an excellent defensive position. The wilders were pushed back from here time and again in ancient days."

"It looks like it hasn't been used since the ancient days, too."

"I don't know," Alistair said, looking around. "I think it's in pretty good shape for being an ancient Tevinter city on the edge of the Wilds."

"I suppose. How much will I be participating in the battle tomorrow?"

"You know," he said, "that's a good question. The other Grey Wardens are riding into battle with the king." He glanced at her sidelong. "I don't know if you'll be with them."

Myranda shot him a glare, but the acid remark about his lack of faith in her skills died on her lips when she noticed the look of distress had returned to his face. "Well, I suppose the sooner we finish the Joining, the sooner I can find out when I'll join the others in the battle."

"All the more reason we should probably be getting back to Duncan."

"Yes, I'm sure he's ready for me to come back by now. He's been looking after my Baby since we arrived."

Alistair blinked in surprise. _'Baby?'_ Now _there_ was a strange image: Duncan caring for an infant. He looked at her quizzically. She didn't look like she'd had a child recently. And she certainly didn't act like she'd been conscripted away from her family against her will... her darkness seemed deeper than mere sadness, homesickness and resentment. Of course she was married, though... she was too pretty not to be. "I don't suppose your husband was too happy about you being recruited."

It was Myranda's turn to look quizzical. "I'm not married."

"But..." He was cut off by a loud bark, and looked up to see a mabari running toward them, barking happily. He would have thought it was an escapee from the kennel except for the way Myranda knelt down to greet the animal.

"Hello, Baby," she said, rubbing the dog affectionately when he reached her. "Did you have a good time with Duncan?"

The dog barked, wagging his stubby tail.

"You have a mabari?" Alistair asked.

"Yes," she said, petting the dog. "He was a gift from my father. We went to see the new litter from a friend's prized bitch, and Baby walked right over to me and crawled into my lap." She smiled a little as the dog barked and licked her under the chin. "He's been mine ever since."

"Ah," Alistair said. "So his name is Baby."

"That's right." She stood again and looked over at him. "You thought I had a child?"

"Well, I..."

"It's all right. Most people do. Though honestly, having him is like having a child, sometimes."

The dog whined and cocked his head curiously.

"You know what I mean," Myranda said, returning her attention to the animal. "Come along, now. Duncan's been waiting for us, hasn't he?"

Baby barked again, bouncing in a circle.

She looked back at Alistair. "We'd better go, then."

He smiled and waved toward the camp, bowing slightly. "After you, my lady."

Myranda gave him a suspicious look before leading the way to the Grey Warden tent.

Duncan looked up as they approached. "You found Alistair, did you? Good. I'll assume you are ready to begin preparations." He turned to the young knight and a ghost of a smile crossed his lips. "Assuming, of course, that you're quite finished riling up mages, Alistair."

Alistair smirked. "What can I say? The revered mother ambushed me. The way she wields guilt they should stick her in the army."

Baby barked.

"She forced you to sass the mage, did she?" The senior Warden frowned then. "We cannot afford to antagonize anyone, Alistair," he admonished gently. "We don't need to give anyone more ammunition against us."

Alistair bowed his head. "You're right, Duncan. I apologize."

Duncan nodded. "Now then," he said, turning to the recruits, "since you are all here, we can begin. You four will be heading into the Korcari Wilds to perform two tasks. The first is to obtain three vials of darkspawn blood, one for each recruit."

"What do we need darkspawn blood for?" Daveth interrupted.

"For the Joining itself," Duncan said as he held out the glass vials to them. "I'll explain more once you've returned."

"And what's the second task?" Myranda asked, returning to the business at hand as she tucked her vial away in a pouch on her belt.

"There was once a Grey Warden archive in the Wilds, abandoned long ago when we could no longer afford to maintain such remote outposts. It has recently come to our attention, however, that some scrolls have been left behind, magically sealed to protect them." He looked at Alistair. "Alistair, I want you to retrieve these scrolls if you can."

"Right."

Myranda narrowed her eyes. "And what if they're no longer there?" she asked shrewdly.

Duncan turned to her. "It's possible the scrolls may have been destroyed or even stolen," he admitted, "though the seal's magic should have protected them. Only a Grey Warden can break such a seal."

"I don't understand," Alistair said. "Why leave such things in a ruin if they're so valuable?

"It was assumed we would someday return." An look of regret crossed Duncan's face. "A great many things were assumed that have not held true."

"How will we find this archive?" Jory asked.

"It will be an overgrown ruin by now, but the sealed chest should remain intact. Alistair will guide you to the area you need to search."

Daveth spoke then. "What kind of scrolls are these?"

"Old treaties, if you're curious," Duncan said. "Promises of support made to the Grey Wardens long ago. They were once considered only formalities. With so many having forgotten their commitments to us, I suspect it may be a good idea to have something to remind them with."

"Find the archive and three vials of blood." Myranda nodded once. "Understood."

Baby barked in agreement.

"Watch over your charges, Alistair," Duncan said. "Return quickly, and safely."

"We will," Alistair promised.

The senior Warden bowed his head slightly. "Then may the Maker watch over your path. I will see you when you return."


	5. The Wilds and the Witch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Myranda and the three men wander around the Wilds for a while and meet a new... err... friend?

**Chapter 5: The Wilds and the Witch**

 

Myranda followed Alistair toward the southern gate, bow in hand. Jory, like Alistair, used a sword and shield, while Daveth had armed himself with a pair of daggers. With Baby with them, that left a distinct lack of ranged fighters, a deficiency that she alone would and could fill.

The party paused on being hailed by the guard at the gate. "I'm told you all have business in the Wilds," he said. "The gate's open for you, just be careful out there. Even a Grey Warden won't be safe in the forest tonight."

"We shouldn't be gone longer than a few hours," Alistair said. "We'll be fine."

"Right then," the guard said before undoing the latch on the gate and pushing it open. "Good luck to you."

The small group stepped through the gate and down the path into the forest.

"This path should take us straight to the old outpost," Alistair told the others. "It goes south for a ways before curving east."

Myranda's eyes were scanning the forest around them. There was something distinctly not right about this forest. It was eerie—as if they were being watched. The deeper into the woods they traveled, the more it seemed like a regular forest: sunlight slanted down through the canopy to dapple the floor, generations of dead leaves crunched softly beneath their boots, sending the tangy sweet smell of rotting vegetation wafting gently upwards.

But there was another smell under that of decaying leaf litter: the smell of blood and death. Myranda shifted her grip on her bow and saw Alistair's hand move to the hilt of his sword. She nodded minutely, her estimation of him rising a few more points.

"Any ideas?" she asked softly.

"Not sure," he replied, impressing Myranda again by knowing precisely what she was talking about. "It isn't darkspawn."

"I'll cover you."

When they topped a small rise, they saw the source of the acrid smell: a group of soldiers lay dead on the ground before them, and a small pack of wolves was feasting on the flesh. The wolves looked up at them then, snarling before running toward them in an attack.

"Here we go!" Myranda said, pulling an arrow from her quiver and letting fly as the other three dashed forward to meet the onslaught, catching the lead wolf in the chest as it leapt for them.

The battle was over almost before it had begun. Myranda smirked as her last arrow caught one of the wolves in the neck just as Daveth was reaching forward to gut it, the arrow missing him by inches. "Well, that was a good exercise," she said as she strode forward to retrieve her arrows, "wouldn't you say, Baby?"

The dog barked enthusiastically.

Suddenly a voice called from somewhere nearby, "H-Help... please..."

Jory blinked and looked around warily. "Did you hear that?"

"Over here..." the voice called again.

Myranda looked around. "Where...? Find him, Baby!"

Baby barked and sniffed the air and ground, trotting off the path into the underbrush before barking again. Myranda started to follow when she stopped suddenly and backed up a few paces, brushing furiously at her left arm.

Alistair watched this ritual in confusion. "Are... you all right?

"Fine," she said, giving her arm another brush. "I'm fine." She continued toward the dog to find a young soldier laying wounded beneath the bushes, clutching a long but shallow-looking slash across his side.

"Who… is that?" he asked, blinking up toward Myranda.

"Well," said Alistair's voice from over her shoulder, "he's not half as dead as he looks, is he?"

The soldier managed to sit up a little. "My scouting band… was attacked by darkspawn." He coughed. "They came out of the ground... Please, help me! I've got to… return to camp...."

"Was my brother with you?" Myranda asked, trying not to sound as desperate as she felt. "Fergus Cousland?"

The soldier shook his head. "I'm... I'm sorry, my lady. I don't know him. He wasn't with us, anyway."

She sighed, disappointed, but relieved that he wasn't dead with the rest of the soldier's scouting party. "Let's try to bandage him up, at least."

"I have some bandages in my pack," Alistair said, kneeling and patching the wounded man up as best he could.

"Thank you." He groaned as he staggered to his feet. "I... I've got to get out of here!" He held out one arm to steady himself before stumbling back toward Ostagar.

Myranda watched him for a minute before pulling a handkerchief from her belt pouch and starting to clean the blood from her arrows.

"Did you hear?" Jory asked, a note of panic creeping into his voice. "An entire patrol of seasoned men killed by darkspawn!"

"Calm down, Ser Jory," Alistair said firmly. "We'll be fine if we're careful."

"Those soldiers were careful, and they were still overwhelmed!" the other knight countered. "How many darkspawn can the four of us slay? A dozen? A hundred? There's an entire army in these forests!"

"There are darkspawn about, but we're in no danger of walking into the bulk of the horde," Alistair continued patiently.

"How do _you_ know? I-I'm no coward, but this is foolish and reckless. We should go back."

Myranda's hands paused and she lifted her eyes. "You sound like a coward to me," she said, her voice soft but with a sharp, judgmental edge to it.

Jory cringed a bit. "I... am simply trying to stay alive, my lady. You do not see me fleeing, do you?"

"A bit of fear isn't unnatural, you know," Alistair said to her. "Few relish meeting darkspawn up close. I know I don't."

"But we are _far_ from helpless here," Myranda countered. She sighed heavily, tossing the arrows back into her quiver. "Let's just get this over with. We have a job to do."

"Know this," Alistair said to Jory, "all Grey Wardens can sense darkspawn. Whatever their cunning, I guarantee they won't take us by surprise. That's why I'm here."

"You see, ser knight?" Daveth piped up with mocking cheerfulness. "We might die, but we'll be warned about it first."

"That is… reassuring," Jory said, giving the other man an odd look.

"That doesn't mean I'm here to make this easy, however," Alistair continued. "So let's get a move on."

"Then shall we?" Myranda asked impatiently, waving toward the path. "I will not spend the night out in this forest."

They strode past the bodies of the rest of the soldier's scouting party, and Myranda glanced at the faces of each of them, fearing to see Fergus among the dead. But he wasn't there. As they passed a small ruin, she felt a gentle tap on her shoulder. She turned to see Alistair staring up the path past her.

"Darkspawn," he warned softly, drawing his sword.

"How many?"

"Five... maybe six."

She smirked. "Time for some fun, then." She pulled an arrow from her quiver just as Alistair rushed by her, continuing down the path before noticing the charge headed toward her. She stopped, aiming carefully as Jory and Daveth ran by her before releasing the arrow to fly in the inch of space between them and into the back of the larger of the two darkspawn that were getting ready to attack Alistair. It shrieked and turned toward her in time to meet one of Daveth's two blades that slashed across its throat.

She started to aim toward the other tall darkspawn that was running down a small hillock toward them when an arrow suddenly scuffed the ground next to her foot, nearly making her release the arrow into Jory's back. She turned her attention toward the top of the hillock to see the darkspawn archer bearing down on her. She managed to dance out of the way of two more arrows before finally getting one off herself that took the darkspawn in the chest just as Alistair and Jory reached it. She turned toward a fourth darkspawn that was rushing toward her, reaching for her dagger before it stumbled and fell at her feet, Daveth's blade protruding from its back.

The dark-haired recruit grinned at her. "Well, you fight pretty well for a woman."

Myranda sneered at him. "And what's that supposed to mean?"

"No, I mean, I've never seen a woman fight like you do."

"Why don't you stop thinking of me as a woman?" she said acidly, pulling an arrow slowly from her quiver and placing it to her bowstring.

"Are you going to shoot me? For complimenting you?" Daveth grinned at her, trying his best to be charming and to ignore the snarling mabari standing next to her. "I'm just trying to look out for you. A beautiful woman should be kept and treasured, protected from all the evil in the world."

Myranda lifted her bow then and fired. The arrow flew past Daveth's head, grazing his ear, and into the throat of the darkspawn standing behind him. The creature made a choked gurgling noise before falling backwards to the ground, dead.

"Is everyone all right?" Alistair asked, trotting up to them.

Daveth turned and stared in horror at the creature that had nearly killed him. He turned back when he felt the front of his tunic being ruthlessly grabbed and suddenly found himself nose-to-nose with a furious Myranda.

"Pay attention," she growled from between clenched teeth, "because I'm only going to say this once. I am not a woman to be coddled. I am a warrior, and I intend to fight this Blight for as long as I can. Nothing else is important. If you have thoughts to the contrary, I suggest you keep them to yourself." She shook him once, roughly. "And it is obvious to me that if _anyone_ here needs protection, it is you. Now I propose you keep your guard up—I will _not_ save your useless life again." She threw the hapless recruit away from her and stormed off toward the small hill, slinging her bow over her shoulder.

The three men watched her with varying levels of wariness before finally Alistair shrugged and followed her. Jory and Daveth looked at each other and hesitated before doing the same.

Myranda knelt beside one of the fallen darkspawn, pausing to consider how best to harvest the blood. Slitting its throat would splash the blood in several directions—not very efficient. The wrist, however....

"You came down on Daveth pretty hard."

It was Alistair's voice. She sneered and drew one of her daggers. "I don't ask for your approval," she said, picking up the creature's hand before slashing the blade viciously across the inside of its wrist. The blood trickled from the wound in a steady stream, hissing as it splashed onto the ground. "If he's worried I'm going to kill him, you can tell him I don't think he's worth the effort." She drove the dagger into the ground and quickly fished out the vial from her pouch, pulling the cork with her teeth and holding the open bottle beneath the flow of steaming black-red blood. When the final drops had poured into the vial, leaving it only half-full, she dropped the hand and replaced the cork in the top of the flask. She pulled her dagger from the dirt as she stood, turning to face Alistair. "And if you have any ideas about protecting me," she warned, pointing her dagger at him, "you may as well forget them, too."

Alistair held up his hands in a show of surrender. "I'm quite certain you have no need of my protection. You're a formidable woman, Myranda."

"Just be sure you don't forget it."

"How could I? I've been a little surprised a few of those arrows of yours didn't hit _us_."

"My aim is impeccable. If I miss my mark, it will be on purpose."

"Right," he said warily. "And what would cause you to miss on purpose?"

"Aside from thinking I'm inferior just because I'm a woman?"

He gave her a bewildered look. "Have you _always_ been this distrustful?"

She sighed. "Only recently." She sheathed her dagger and walked by him. "Come on, let's just go."

They continued to wander south through the Wilds, killing darkspawn as they came across them and harvesting the blood. As they neared a bridge spanning a small stream, however, they were knocked back by a bolt of magic that struck the ground directly in front of them.

"What was that?" Jory asked.

"Emissary," Alistair said, getting to his feet. "Darkspawn magic-user." He looked at the three recruits. "Everyone all right?"

"Get off of me!" Myranda shouted, kicking at Daveth, who had unfortunately landed partially on top of her. She looked up to see the darkspawn fleeing across the bridge. "There it goes," she said.

"Then what are we waiting for?" Jory said, starting toward the bridge.

Baby barked, but didn't move.

"Wait a minute," Myranda said, noticing the dog's reaction. "This may be an ambush. Why else would it run?" She looked at Alistair for an answer to find him staring toward the bridge through slightly narrowed eyes.

"There are more," he agreed. "I can't tell how many, but there are more. As long as we're careful, we should be fine."

"Right," Myranda said, following the Grey Warden as he made his cautious way forward. "Watch the line of traps on the bridge, too," she said. No sooner had the words left her lips than Alistair managed to step on one of them, the teeth crunching into his armored boot. She sighed. "Including that one," she muttered, kneeling and pulling the trap apart so he could extract his foot.

"Thanks," he said, starting to move forward again.

"Don't!" she shouted.

Alistair stopped, his foot barely a foot above the ground.

"Don't... move." She reached out and carefully worked the mechanism of the trap directly under his foot until it disarmed with a loud, satisfying click.

An arrow whistled suddenly through the air, cleaving into her lower arm. She gasped at the sudden invasion, but felt no immediate adverse effects—darkspawn apparently didn't use poisoned arrows.

"Myranda..."

"Go!" she shouted at them, breaking off the shaft below the fletching and pulling the arrow the rest of the way through her arm. "Just watch the rest of..." she let her voice trail off as Alistair managed to find another of the various traps scattered across the road by stepping directly into it. She sighed as she stood up and lifted her bow again. "Hopeless," she muttered to herself, firing into the foot of one of the genlocks, pinning it in place to be cut down. She quickly searched the field and smirked. "There you are," she muttered to herself, drawing back and aiming carefully before letting the arrow fly down the road toward the emissary, taking it in the stomach. The wound in her arm burned horribly, but she pulled another arrow and fired again, this time with the bolt hitting the darkspawn mage in the chest, interrupting the spell it was starting. A third arrow finished it off.

The battle was over quickly and Myranda looked down at the hole in her arm that was still oozing blood. "Damn," she muttered, shouldering her bow as she made her way over to the creek and kneeling on the bank. She petted Baby as he trotted over and whined at her.

"Are you all right?" Alistair asked her.

"Oh, it'll be fine," she said, dunking her arm into the frigid waters of the tiny stream. "Stupid. I should have been more aware." She shook the water from her arm and turned to see Alistair standing there with a short bandage in his hands. She sighed softly and held out her arm, which he bandaged quickly and effectively. "Thanks."

He nodded a little.

They wandered for several more hours looking for the ruins. Myranda was convinced that they were hopelessly lost in this never-ending forest and would be fighting darkspawn until the coming of the tenth Age. They followed one path until it formed a sudden dead end, turned around and tried a different path only to find themselves going around in circles. Just when she thought she was going to start pulling out her hair in frustration, they stumbled across the main path, some of the cobbles from the old Tevinter road still sticking out of the dirt.

The outpost itself was a crumbling ruin more so than even Ostagar. Other than an archway that may have once framed the front gates, there was nothing left of the building other than what once may have been a beautiful mosaic on the entry floor and a stairway that led to an upper courtyard, the gallery of which had fallen way sometime in the previous Age.

Myranda looked around. "How are we supposed to find the scrolls in this? There's nothing left."

"The chest must be somewhere," Alistair said. "Spread out."

Myranda climbed the stairs, not thinking it likely that the chest would be in an entry courtyard. She heard footsteps behind her and saw that Jory apparently had the same idea, though he was staying well outside of stabbing range. She nodded once to him when he glanced up at her, waving down one side of the wide hallway while she went the other.

Several minutes later, Jory's voice called out. "I've found it!"

Myranda turned and trotted back toward the staircase, where Jory was sliding the chest.

"It's still locked however," he was saying as Daveth and Alistair climbed the stairs toward them.

"We'll never find the key," Myranda noted.

"So how do we open it?"

"We could break open the lock," Daveth suggested.

"I'd rather not risk damaging the contents," Alistair said.

"So what do we do?" Jory asked again.

Before any of them could make a decision, however, the chest was suddenly kicked violently down the staircase. It bounced against the stone steps three times before landing on the entry hall floor in front of where Baby stood, causing the dog to back away as it smashed open.

Alistair turned with a quiet glare to Myranda.

She shrugged. "It worked, didn't it?" She descended the stairs to the broken chest, listening to the footfalls of the men behind her as they gathered around her. She knelt by the broken chest, pushing off what remained of the lid only to find the container empty. "Damn," she muttered. "They're gone."

"Well, well, what have we here?"

She looked up at the new voice to see a svelte, exotic-looking young woman with tied-back black hair standing at the top of the stairs, watching them. She stood and watched the woman slowly descend the steps, her voice taunting her.

"Are you a vulture, I wonder? A scavenger poking amidst a corpse whose bones have been long since cleaned?"

Myranda's green eyes narrowed slightly as she moved through the men toward this other woman, trying to get her measure. She wore no weapons, but still gave off a powerful and dangerous air. This was not a woman to underestimate.

"Or merely an intruder, come into these darkspawn-filled Wilds of mine in search of... easy prey?" She stared at Myranda for a few moments, her golden eyes narrowed slightly. "What say you, hmm? Scavenger or intruder?"

"Intruder?" Myranda threw the word back at her. "And just how are these _your_ Wilds?"

The other young woman chuckled. "Because I know them as only one who owns them could. Can you claim the same?" She smirked as she walked around her. "I have watched your progress for some time," she said. "'Where do they go,' I wondered, 'why are they here?'" She turned to face Myranda again. "And now you disturb ashes none have touched for so long. Why is that?" There was a malice beneath her lightly-asked question, like a snake in the tall grass of a meadow.

"Don't answer her," Alistair said softly. "She looks Chasind, and that means others may be nearby."

"Oh," the woman taunted him, "you fear barbarians will swoop down upon you?"

"Yes," he said slowly. "Swooping... is... bad."

Myranda blinked before slowly turning to him. "What?"

He looked at her quizzically for a moment before shrugging minutely. "Well... it is."

She closed her eyes and sighed. She wasn't going to dignify that with a response.

"She's a Witch of the Wilds, she is," Daveth whispered loudly. "She'll turn us into toads!"

"Witch of the Wilds?" the woman repeated, drawing their attention again. "Such idle fancies those legends." She regarded them with open disgust, placing her hands on her hips. "Have you no minds of your own?" She looked back at Myranda then. "You there. Women do not frighten like little boys. Tell me your name and I shall tell you mine."

Myranda stared at her for a few moments before lifting her chin, ignoring Alistair's whispered "Don't!" "You can call me Myranda," she said.

"And you may call me Morrigan, if you wish."

The blonde nodded once.

"Shall I guess your purpose? You sought something in that chest, something that is here no longer?"

"'Here no longer?'" Alistair repeated incredulously. "You _stole_ them, didn't you? You're... some kind of... sneaky... witch-thief!"

Myranda winced before rolling her eyes. Maker's breath, of all the _stupid_ things to say....

"How very eloquent," Morrigan said mockingly. "How does one steal from dead men?"

"Quite easily, it seems." Alistair pointed at her. "Those documents are Grey Warden property," he said, "and I suggest you return them."

"I will not, for 'twas not I who removed them." She sneered at Alistair then. "Invoke a name that means nothing here any longer if you wish; I am not threatened."

Myranda heard Alistair start to say something else and held up a hand. Best to stop this before Morrigan decided to be completely uncooperative. "Then who removed them?" she asked.

"'Twas my mother, in fact."

"Can you take us to her?"

Morrigan considered her for a moment. "There is a sensible request." She smiled then, though the look was slightly menacing. "I like you."

Myranda smirked. She was starting to like this Morrigan as well.

"I'd be careful," Alistair muttered. "First it's, 'I like you...' but then 'Zap!' Frog time."

She turned to glare at him. "If it gets us the treaties back, does it really matter right now?"

"She'll put us all in the pot, she will," Daveth said. "Just you watch!"

"If the pot's warmer than this forest, it'd be a nice change," Jory replied.

"Follow me, then, if it pleases you," Morrigan said, turning and walking into the woods without looking to see if they followed.

Myranda threw a slightly disgusted look at her three companions and trotted to catch up. They could follow if they wanted. Otherwise she'd go alone.

 

 

The trek through the marsh was a hard one, but Myranda kept pace with Morrigan the whole way. The three men had decided to follow, but kept their distance behind the two women. Finally, as the sun dipped toward the west and evening began to settle over the land, they rounded a corner to see a small hut nestled in front of a stand of scrub trees. The hut itself was a small thatched affair perched on short legs with three steps leading toward the front door.

Myranda's steps slowed as she saw the woman who had been leaning against the doorframe as if waiting for them. Though grey-haired and wrinkled with age, she radiated strength and cunning. The hairs on the back of Myranda's neck seemed to stand on end as the woman straightened, staring at them with bright eyes the same color as Morrigan's. There was power behind this woman, and danger. It was like facing down a tightly-leashed dragon that wanted to rise and whose first meal in an Age had just walked into its lair.

"Greetings, Mother," Morrigan said. "I bring before you four Grey Wardens who—"

"I see them, girl," the old woman interrupted. She looked them over with outward disinterest as she slowly descended the stairs, though there was a spark of cold calculation behind her golden eyes. "Hmm. Much as I expected."

Alistair laughed slightly. "Are we supposed to believe you were expecting us?" he asked incredulously.

"You are required to do nothing," the old woman replied, "least of all believe. Shut one's eyes tight or open one's arms wide... either way, one's a fool!"

"She's a witch, I tell you!" Daveth whispered loudly, his voice quaking with something akin to fear. "We shouldn't be talking to her!"

"Quiet, Daveth!" Jory whispered back. "If she's really a witch, do you want to make her mad?"

The old woman smiled, though the look was more menacing than friendly. "Now, there is a smart lad. Sadly irrelevant to the larger scheme of things, but it is not I who decides. Believe what you will." Her gold eyes locked on Myranda and her smile widened a little before she stepped towards the younger woman. "And what of you?" she asked. "Does your woman's mind give you a different viewpoint? Or do you believe as these boys do?"

Myranda squared her shoulders as she faced the woman . "I'm no fool, if that's what you're asking."

The elder witch laughed darkly. "If you must protest so quickly, perhaps I need not ask?"

Emerald eyes narrowed slightly. She didn't dare say anything however—every fiber of her being was attuned to the danger emanating from this woman.

"So much about you is uncertain," she went on. Then, after a short pause, continued, "and yet I believe. Do I?" she questioned softly, turning her head slightly to stare at her out of the corner of her eye. "Why!" she breathed in mocking surprise, facing Myranda again with a smile that held more underlying peril than anything else. "It seems I do!"

"So... _this_ is a dreaded Witch of the Wilds."

Myranda could hear the haughty smirk in Alistair's voice, and it was making her incredibly nervous... though she took care not to show it on her face. Did he honestly have no idea what they were up against?

"Witch of the Wilds, eh?" the old woman said. "Morrigan must have told you that. She fancies such tales, though she would never admit it." She sighed in mock dreaminess. "Oh how she dances under the moon!" She laughed then, high, biting and mocking.

Myranda looked over at Morrigan, who was rolling her eyes.

"They did not come to listen to your wild tales, Mother," Morrigan said, her voice belying her strained patience and exasperation.

"True," she said, turning abruptly from the four before walking back toward the hut. "They came for their treaties, yes?" She bent with the ease of a woman half her age and gathered up a small collection of bound scrolls. "And before you begin barking," she said as a warning as she walked back toward them, "your precious seal wore off long ago. I have protected these."

Myranda shot an admonishing look at Alistair over her shoulder.

"You... oh. You protected them." He looked surprised and the tiniest bit chagrined.

"And why not?" Morrigan's mother countered. She looked at Alistair as he started to step forward to take them before pointedly handing them to Myranda. "Take them to your Grey Wardens," she said to the blonde woman, "and tell them this Blight's threat is greater than they realize."

Myranda took the bundle with a slight bow of her head.

"What do you mean the threat is greater than they realize?" Jory asked, his anxiety ringing clearly in his voice.

The old witch turned to him. "Either the threat is more," she said, "or they realize less." She smirked then. "Or perhaps the threat is nothing!" she said with a laugh that made them all nervous. "Or perhaps they realize nothing!"

Nervous glances were exchanged before Myranda carefully stowed the four scrolls in her quiver. "Thank you for returning them," she said.

The elder woman's eyebrows quirked upward. "Such manners!" she said with slight surprise. "Always in the last place you look... like stockings." She chuckled deep in her throat when the blonde woman gave her a wary look. "Oh, do not mind me. You have what you came for!"

"Time for you to go then," Morrigan told them dismissively.

"Do not be ridiculous, girl," her mother admonished. "These are your guests."

Morrigan sneered slightly. "Oh," she said before sighing heavily. "Very well. I will show you out of the woods. Follow me."

 

 

The sun had set by the time they reached the path to the ruined city. Morrigan had quite literally vanished as they reached it: she had moved behind one of the trees, disturbing a crow that had been foraging there, and by the time the group followed, she was nowhere to be seen.

Myranda looked around for a moment before a gentle touch on her shoulder brought her back to the present and she followed Alistair back through the gate and into the well-lit camp.

Duncan looked up as they approached the massive fire at the center of the Grey Wardens' compound. "So you return from the Wilds. Have you been successful?"

"We have," Alistair said.

The older man nodded once. "Good."

"I have the treaties in my quiver," Myranda told the senior Warden. "Would you like them?"

"Keep them for now," Duncan told her. "I've had the Circle mages preparing. With the blood you've retrieved, we can begin the Joining immediately."

Myranda fished the vial of blood she had collected from her pouch and handed it to him. "I am ready."

"Excellent. You will need that courage to face what comes next."

"Courage?" Daveth repeated as he handed over his own vial after Jory. "How much danger are we in?"

"I will not lie; we Grey Wardens pay a heavy price to become what we are." He looked unseeing at the three vials in his hand. "Fate may decree that you pay your price now rather than later."

Myranda lowered her brow. She was tired of all this secrecy and was ready to be done with this Joining, whatever it involved. "I have no problem facing what is to come," she said.

"I agree," Jory said. "Let's have it done."

Duncan looked at them solemnly before nodding once. "Then let us begin." He turned to the junior Warden. "Alistair, take them to the old temple."


	6. Tainted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Myranda becomes a Grey Warden.

**Chapter 6: Tainted**

_"Destiny is not a matter of chance, it is a matter of choice; it is not a thing to be waited for: it is a thing to be achieved." ~William Jennings Bryant_

 

The waning crescent moon was high overhead, grinning sarcastically down at the three recruits waiting in the old temple. Myranda knelt with Baby on one side of the central altar room away from Daveth and Jory, the latter of whom was pacing like a caged animal.

"The more I hear about this Joining, the less I like it," he muttered.

Daveth looked up from where he was lounging against a portion of a column that had probably fallen into the room sometime during the Steel Age. "Are you blubbering again?" he asked incredulously.

"Why all these damned tests?" Jory demanded. "Have I not earned my place?"

"Maybe it's tradition." He smirked darkly. "Maybe they're just trying to annoy you."

Myranda rolled her eyes. "I swear I'm the bravest one here, and I'm a woman," she muttered to Baby. She glanced over to where Alistair stood near the entrance to the temple, leaning against one of the partially collapsed pillars. He had very pointedly not looked at her since they had walked onto the sacred ground. Her eyes narrowed slightly. He knew what was about to happen and, whatever it was, he wasn't comfortable with it. That was a bad sign.

"I only know that my wife is in Highever with a child on the way," Jory was saying. "If they had warned me, I... it just doesn't seem fair."

"Would you have come if they'd warned you?" Daveth asked. "Maybe that's why they don't. The Wardens do what they must, right?"

"Including sacrificing us?!"

"I'd sacrifice a lot more if I knew it would end the Blight."

Myranda spoke then. "But we don't know that, Daveth."

Daveth turned to her. "Don't we?" he asked, the question almost a challenge. "The Grey Wardens have saved the world from darkspawn before. I'd say they know better than anyone what it takes." He looked back at Jory. "You saw those darkspawn, ser knight. Wouldn't you die to protect your pretty wife from them?"

Jory hesitated. "I..."

"Maybe you'll die. Maybe we'll all die. If nobody stops the darkspawn, we'll die for sure."

The knight looked uncomfortable. "I've just never faced a foe I could not engage with my blade," he said at last.

"At last we come to the Joining."

Myranda looked up at Duncan's voice, only to see him walking into the temple cradling a large silver chalice. Alistair fell into step behind him, keeping his eyes on the ground.

"The Grey Wardens were founded during the first Blight, when humanity stood on the verge of annihilation." Duncan placed the chalice somewhat reverently on the altar stone before turning to the three recruits. "So it was that the first Grey Wardens drank of darkspawn blood and mastered their taint."

Myranda's eyebrows shot up, the only outward sign she gave of her surprise.

"We're... going to drink the blood of those... those creatures?" Jory sputtered in horror.

Duncan nodded. "As the first Grey Wardens did before us, as we did before you. This is the source of our power... and our victory."

"Those who survive the Joining become immune to the taint," Alistair explained. "We can sense it in the darkspawn and use it to slay the archdemon."

"Those who _survive_?" Myranda repeated. So _that_ was what they were hiding.

"Not all who drink the blood will survive," Duncan said, "and those who do are forever changed. This is why the Joining is a secret. It is the price we pay."

Myranda glanced at her fellow recruits. Daveth looked calm and surprisingly determined, but Jory had the wild look of a desperate man about him. He would need to be watched.

"We speak only a few words prior to the Joining, but these words have been said since the first." Duncan looked at Alistair calmly. "Alistair, if you would...?"

Alistair nodded a little before bowing his head reverently. "Join us brothers and sisters," he said softly. "Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that can not be forsworn."

Jory looked over at the chalice, sitting innocently on the altar. He never imagined they would ask them to drink blood... it was unthinkable! The chalice was unprotected... if he knocked it over, the Joining would cease, and he could return to Highever. He looked back to see if anyone was watching and cringed slightly at the sight of Lady Cousland's intense green eyes staring icily at him. She seemed to read his mind while she glared at him, because her eyes narrowed into suspicious, judgmental slits. He quailed in the face of her condemnation and subsided.

"And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten. And that one day... we shall join you."

Duncan nodded and walked back to the chalice. "And so begins the Joining," he said, taking up the cup and turning back to the recruits. "Daveth, step forward. You are called upon to submit yourself to the taint for the greater good."

The younger man took a deep breath and stepped forward to take the cup from the senior Warden. He looked into it for a moment, visibly steeling himself before lifting it to his lips and drinking deeply.

He had just handed the cup back when he seemed to gag and doubled over, coughing violently. Myranda watched in slight horror as he writhed in obvious agony, falling to his knees.

"Maker's breath!" Jory swore, his voice hoarse with fear.

Duncan simply shook his head. "I am sorry, Daveth."

The unfortunate recruit clawed at his throat, gasping for air before his eyes rolled up and he fell over dead onto the mosaic floor.

The Grey Warden bowed his head for a moment before lifting his eyes to Jory. "Step forward, Jory."

Jory shook his head. "But... I have a wife..." he stammered, backing away. "A child... had I known...."

"There is no turning back."

Fear was quickly turning to violent recklessness—Myranda could feel it in the air. She glanced at Alistair, who looked at her and shook his head a little as a warning not to interfere.

"No!" Jory cried, drawing his sword. "You ask too much!"

Duncan handed the chalice to Alistair, who took it quickly, and drew his sword.

"There is no glory in this!" Jory looked around wildly before, in a last desperate act, he lashed out at Duncan.

The older man parried the blow easily, the knife appearing in his hand seconds before it was driven into the young knight's ribcage. "I am sorry," he said, his regret clear on his face as he withdrew the knife and stepped away, letting the dead man fall limply to the ground.

Myranda winced slightly, backing up a step before Duncan turned to her.

"But the Joining is not yet complete," he said, taking up the chalice again. "Step forward, Myranda. You are called upon to submit yourself to the taint for the greater good." He held out the cup to her.

Myranda took it and looked into the heavy bowl of the goblet at the foul black-red liquid inside. She set her features, her fear hardening inside her though Baby whined worriedly. She took a deep breath, raised the cup to her lips, and drank.

Almost immediately she felt something racing through her blood, making her dizzy. She barely noticed the chalice being taken from her hands as the world spun around her. She was disoriented and confused. She brought a hand to her suddenly throbbing head and closed her eyes to stop the images and colors from swirling around her before she felt her eyes open and the darkness overtook her.

There was an image then: a frightful creature that looked like a dragon in front of a green sky. It seemed to look right at her before roaring loudly. The sound was dreadful. She tried to cover her ears, but her arms had seemed to stop obeying her. She tried to scream, but no sound left her lips. She couldn't escape the horrid noise or the terrible monster. It became more and more unbearable, and then, suddenly, she plummeted into darkness.

Myranda opened her eyes only to see Duncan and Alistair looking at her, the dark sky hanging above them. She blinked slowly. What was she doing lying down? When did it happen? Why didn't she remember falling?

"It is finished," Duncan said softly. "From this moment forth, you are a Grey Warden. Welcome."

Myranda sat up slowly, trying not to move too suddenly lest her rioting stomach completely revolt against her. She reached out as Baby licked her cheek, petting him uncertainly.

Alistair turned away. "Two more deaths!" he said with slight disgust. His voice softened then. "In my Joining, only one of us died, but it was... horrible." He turned back to her. "I'm glad at least one of you made it through."

Duncan reached down, pulling the young woman to her feet. "How do you feel?" he asked.

She shook her head slowly. "I'll be fine," she said. "Though I'll admit I wasn't prepared for _that_."

"Such is what it takes to be a Grey Warden."

"Did you have dreams?" Alistair asked. "I had terrible dreams after my Joining."

"Such dreams come when you begin to sense the darkspawn, as we all do," Duncan said. "That and many other things can be explained in the months to come."

Myranda shook her head again. "As long as there aren't too many more nasty surprises."

"Before I forget, there is one last part to your Joining," Alistair said. "We take some of that blood and put it in a pendant. Something to remind us... of those who didn't make it this far."

Myranda took the necklace from him, gazing at the small round pendant for a moment before closing her hand around it. She looked back up at him and nodded slightly in acceptance and thanks.

"Take some time," Duncan told her. "When you are ready, I'd like you to accompany me to a meeting with the king."

Myranda gave him a puzzled look. "What kind of meeting?"

"The king is discussing strategy for the upcoming battle," he said. "I am not sure why he has requested your presence."

She had a feeling she knew the reason, but kept it to herself.

"The meeting is in the king's tent. Please attend as soon as you are able."

"I shall be there presently."

"Very well."

Myranda watched as both Duncan and Alistair walked down the stairs, leaving her alone in the temple complex. Only then did she allow the full body shudder to rake through her, panting with the aftershocks of fear and adrenaline. She brought her hands up to her face, struggling to regain control. "All right, Myranda," she said softly to herself. "You're all right. You're fine. Get a hold of yourself now. You survived it... it's fine now." She scrubbed her face with her hands, sliding them away from her eyes at the sound of a concerned bark. Baby stood looking up at her, his head tilted slightly. She allowed one corner of her mouth to lift fractionally and knelt beside the war hound, scratching him behind the ear. "There, now. You see?" she said. "I'm all right."

Baby barked and whined softly.

"No need to worry. I think the worst part is over... until the battle, that is." She heard soft footsteps and stood quickly, drawing her knife. "Who's there?" she demanded as Baby growled softly next to her.

"Easy," Alistair said, coming out of the shadows. "It's just me."

"Alistair? I thought you were on your way to the meeting with Duncan."

"I came back to see if you were all right."

She blinked in surprise. Was he concerned about her? "I'm fine," she said, sheathing her knife.

"You're doing better than me," he said. "I was sick almost as soon as I woke up from the dreams."

He was trying to cheer her up. That was... sweet. "Well, I do feel a little... queasy," she admitted. "I think from the idea of drinking blood."

"It isn't just the idea," he assured her. "Anyhow, I just wanted to make sure you were all right."

"Thank you," she said. Remembering the pendant in her hand, she opened the clasp and looped the chain around her neck.

"Need a hand?" Alistair offered.

"No, I..." she fumbled with the clasp, making a few more attempts before sighing heavily in frustration and resignation. "Yes."

A slight smile crossed his lips before he walked over to her, taking the ends of the chain from her.

"I knew there was a reason I never bothered with such things." Myranda felt the small sphere against the hollow of her throat before it dropped to hang at the point of her collarbone. It felt cool and unfamiliar, but not uncomfortable. Alistair stepped away and she turned to face him. "Thank you."

He nodded. "Of course."

"Well, I suppose we shouldn't keep the king waiting."

"Actually, I'm not going to the meeting. You and Duncan were the only ones the king requested be present."

"Lucky me," Myranda said sarcastically.

Alistair smiled a little. "I'll see you afterward."

"Right." She looked down at her mabari. "Let's go, Baby."

Baby barked and followed her toward the stairs.

"Myranda."

She stopped and looked back at him.

"I'm glad you made it through."

She allowed one corner of her mouth to lift in a slight smile. "So am I," she said.

 

 

Myranda gave her name to the guards outside the king's tent and walked past their slight bows. She pulled back the flap and stepped into the warm golden glow inside the tent, looking around at the small group assembled. There was a mage and his templar guard to one side with a woman in a Chantry robe who emanated so much stern authority she could only be the revered mother. Duncan stood at a small table with his back to her, facing the king and a third man. This last she knew without having to be introduced... the subject of so many of her bedtime stories as a child and a hero of Ferelden: Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir.

"Loghain, my decision is final," Cailan was saying. "I will stand by the Grey Wardens in this assault."

"You risk too much, Cailan," Loghain told him. "The darkspawn horde is too dangerous for you to be playing hero on the front lines."

"If that's the case, perhaps we should wait for the Orlesian forces to join us, after all."

"I must repeat my protest to your fool notion that we need the Orlesians to defend ourselves."

"It's not a 'fool notion,'" Cailan said. "Our arguments with the Orlesians are a thing of the past." His eyes narrowed in the beginnings of a true anger that surprised Myranda. "And you will remember who is king," he said.

The teyrn's jaw set in a firm and uncompromising line. "How fortunate Maric did not live to see his son ready to hand Ferelden over to those who enslaved us for a century," he said, his voice almost a snarl.

"Then our current forces will have to suffice, won't they? Duncan, are your forces ready for battle?" he asked, turning to the third man at the war table.

"They are, your Majesty," Duncan said.

Myranda took that moment to step out of the shadows, still treading softly so as not to interrupt.

Cailan obviously noticed her, however, and looked over the senior Warden's shoulder before grinning. "Ah, here is Lady Cousland," he said, drawing the company's attention to her. "I understand congratulations are in order."

Myranda nodded her acknowledgement as she walked to the table. "Thank you, your Majesty." She watched with some amusement as he looked like he was about to take her hand before he thought better of it, glancing at the war hound that sat purposefully between them.

"Every Grey Warden is needed now," he said, returning his eyes to Myranda. "You should be honored to join their ranks."

"I am, thank you."

"Your fascination with glory and legends will be your undoing, Cailan," Loghain said. "We must attend to reality."

Cailan sighed as if at the return of an old argument. "Fine," he said. "Speak your strategy." He leaned over the map and pointed to a position just south of the city. "The Grey Wardens and I draw the darkspawn into charging our lines here, and then...?"

"You will alert the tower to light the beacon, signaling my men to charge from cover..."

"To flank the darkspawn," the king interrupted. "I remember." He considered the map before pointing at a filled circle to the east of the ruin. "This is the Tower of Ishal, yes? Who shall light this beacon?"

"I have a few men stationed there," Loghain said dismissively. "It's not a dangerous task, but it is vital."

"Then we should send our best." Cailan considered the map for a few more moments before straightening. "Send Alistair and my lady Cousland to make sure it's done."

Myranda's green eyes snapped up. " _What_?! You mean I won't be fighting in the battle?" she asked incredulously. She was going to be left out _again_?

"We need the beacon," Duncan said. "Without it, Loghain's men won't know when to charge."

"But...!"

"You see?" Cailan cut her off with a disarming smile. "Glory for everyone!"

Myranda fought back her annoyance at being sidelined with an obviously menial task. "Your Majesty, I really think I could better serve you on the front lines with the other Grey Wardens."

"No. I need you to secure the beacon." He caught her eyes with his. "It's greatly important, and I know I can trust you with it."

Myranda stared into his gentle grey-blue eyes, wanting to protest and knowing she couldn't. There was nothing for it. So she sighed and inclined her head slightly in acknowledgement. "Yes, your Majesty. I'll do my best."

"Thank you, my lady."

"You rely on these Grey Wardens too much," Loghain said. "Is that truly wise?"

Cailan turned to the older man with obvious annoyance. "Enough of your conspiracy theories, Loghain. Grey Wardens battle the Blight. We need their help now."

"Your Majesty," Duncan cut in before the old argument could blow up again, "you should consider the possibility of the archdemon appearing."

"There have been no signs of any dragons in the Wilds," Loghain noted, though he didn't sound surprised.

Cailan lifted one eyebrow at the senior Warden. "Isn't that what your men are here for, Duncan?"

"I..." Duncan's voice trailed off quickly before he breathed a soft sigh. "Yes, your Majesty."

"Your Majesty," the mage began, stepping forward, "the tower and its beacon are unnecessary. The Circle of Magi..."

"We will not trust any lives to your spells, mage," the revered mother cut him off severely. "Save them for the darkspawn."

"Enough!" Loghain said. "This plan will suffice. The Grey Wardens will light the beacon."

"Thank you, Loghain," Cailan said as the teyrn turned to walk from the tent. "I cannot wait for that glorious moment: the Grey Wardens fighting alongside the King of Ferelden to stem the tide of evil!"

Loghain paused in the doorway. "Yes, Cailan," he said, looking over his shoulder with a strange sort of smile on his lips. "A glorious moment for us all."


	7. The Battle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Battle of Ostagar.

**Chapter 7: The Battle**

_"Maker, my enemies are abundant. Many are those who rise up against me. But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion, Should they set themselves against me." ~Canticle of Trials 1:1_

 

Alistair looked up when he heard footsteps walking back into the camp. "Well? What's the plan?" He looked at Myranda's face and frowned. "Uh oh."

"So close," Myranda muttered. "I was so damned close! It's because I'm a woman. No, it's because I'm 'my lady Cousland.'" She repeated the title with scornful reverence.

"What happened? What did they say?"

"We get a special assignment," she said with haughty contempt.

He was confused by her scorn. "That doesn't seem so bad."

"Oh, wait 'til you hear what it is." She snorted. "We're lucky the king _favors_ the Grey Wardens." She turned as she heard Duncan approach.

"You heard the plan," he said to her. "You and Alistair will go to the Tower of Ishal and ensure the beacon is lit."

"What?!" Alistair cried. "I won't be in the battle?"

"I told you we got a 'special assignment,'" Myranda said.

"This is by the king's personal request, Alistair," Duncan said. "If the beacon is not lit, Teyrn Loghain's men won't know when to charge."

"So he needs two Grey Wardens standing up there holding the torch. Just in case, right?" The acidity he had let slip talking about Cailan earlier in the day had returned.

"I agree with Alistair," Myranda said. "We should be in the battle!"

"This is not your choice," Duncan said firmly. "If King Cailan wishes Grey Wardens to ensure the beacon is lit, then Grey Wardens will be there. We must do whatever it takes to destroy the darkspawn... exciting or no."

Myranda sighed and subsided.

"I get it. I get it," Alistair said, sounding defeated. "But just so you know, if the king ever asks me to put on a dress and dance the Remigold," he sliced through the air with his hand, "I'm drawing the line. Darkspawn or no."

Myranda looked over at him, lifting an eyebrow. "I think I'd like to see that," she said, smirking.

He shot her a grin. "For you? Maybe. But it would have to be a pretty dress."

"It could be a great distraction."

"Me shimmying down the darkspawn line?" he asked with a slight laugh. "Sure, we could kill them while they roll around laughing."

Duncan sighed heavily and returned to the matter at hand. "The tower is on the other side of the gorge from the king's camp, the way we came when we arrived," he added to Myranda. "You'll need to cross the gorge and head through the gate and up to the tower entrance. From the top, you'll overlook the entire valley."

Myranda nodded, surrendering to their fate. "When do we light the beacon?" she asked before a loud clap of thunder sounded overhead.

"We will signal you when the time is right. Alistair will know what to look for."

Myranda looked over at the other Warden, who nodded slightly. "How much time do we have?"

"The battle is about to begin. Once I leave, move quickly. You'll have less than an hour."

"Can we join the battle afterwards?" Alistair asked.

"Stay with the teyrn's men and guard the tower," Duncan instructed. "If you are needed, we will send word."

"All right," Myranda said, cracking her knuckles. "Let's do this, then."

Baby barked excitedly.

"Then I must join the others. From here, you two are on your own. Remember, you are both Grey Wardens. I expect you to be worthy of that title."

"We won't fail."

"Duncan..." Alistair called as the older man started to turn. "May the Maker watch over you."

"May He watch over us all," Duncan said before turning and leaving them.

The two younger Wardens watched him for a few moments before turning to each other. Myranda sighed. "There's nothing for it," she said. "We've got a job to do, no matter how menial."

"At least it's supposed to be important."

"But I may as well be an Orlesian fop waving a handkerchief for all the good I'll be once we light the fire." She sighed as they walked toward the gate to the bridge. "But you're right... it is important. And maybe we will get to join the battle afterward."

They reached the bridge, looking down at the army gathering on the field below them. The chantry sisters were processing in front of the ranks with their braziers of incense swinging before them, blessing the troops before the battle. The mabari barked anxiously, itching for the fight to begin.

From her vantage point, Myranda couldn't help thinking how... small the army looked. But if this wasn't truly a Blight and only a large raid as Cailan had said, perhaps they would make it through. She sighed a little before turning to Alistair, holding out her right hand. "Good luck," she said, "to both of us."

Alistair looked at her hand before reaching out to take her wrist in a knight's handshake, acknowledging her as not only an equal, but as a warrior, too. She obviously noticed the subtle difference, because she graced him with a slight smile... which was an improvement over her usual cynical smirks.

It was at that moment that, after scattering a few drops here and there, the clouds opened up and a steady rain started to fall. Alistair looked up and sighed. "And, of course, on top of everything else, it has to rain."

"You won't melt," Myranda retorted, turning back to the bridge. "What do you say, Baby?" she asked the dog standing beside her. "How about a race? First one across the bridge?"

Baby barked, bouncing around in a circle.

She looked at Alistair then. "Care to join us?"

"I'll lose."

"That's why I asked."

He shot her a look, but there was no malice in the smirk on her lips. "Like to win, do you?"

"I usually do." She felt something suddenly: a tingling in the back of her mind and in her very blood. "What...?"

"Here they come," Alistair said. "Darkspawn." He pointed down toward the battlefield at the hoard that had started to gather there, barely discernible except for in the light from their torches and during the brief, bright flashes of lightning. Even so, it was obvious that there were more of them than the humans.

Myranda's eyes widened at the sight. "Holy Maker," she breathed. "You weren't exaggerating earlier, were you?"

"Like I said, they've had centuries to build up their numbers."

The rain grew steadily heavier as the battle commenced beneath them. Arrows flew over the bridge toward the lines of archers there, and numerous heavy stones were hurled from catapults into the crumbling walls toward the city. One hit a nearby tower, and Myranda ducked, throwing up her arms to protect her head from falling debris. She looked up at a sudden metallic rapping to see Alistair had lifted his shield to protect them both as larger stones rained down on them.

"Let's get to the tower quickly!" Alistair called. "Teyrn Loghain will be awaiting the signal… Cailan may need him earlier than he thought."

"Right. Let's go, Baby," she said before taking off across the bridge. The mabari barked and loped after her, with Alistair following them both. She had just crossed the halfway point, ducking projectiles at every step, when Baby started to bark. Turning back she saw Alistair clutching his shoulder, out of which protruded an arrow shaft. "Alistair!" she called, running back to him.

"I'm fine," he said. "It's nothing."

She pushed him down and ducked as another volley flew over their heads before inspecting the wound. There was no way to push the arrow through without pulling off his armor, which left the unfortunate alternative. "Grit your teeth," she warned before jerking the arrow out. She looked at him as a florid string of colorful adjectives passed his lips. "I can't imagine they taught you that in the Chantry," she said, waving the arrow in mock reproach.

"No," he said, rotating his arm to test the shoulder before picking up his sword where he had dropped it. "That I learned from the other Grey Wardens."

She smirked at that, tossing the bolt away. "Come on."

They made it across the bridge without further incident. Myranda started to run straight down the path, but turned at Alistair's shouted "This way!" to follow him down a path to the east toward the tower. They ran into a group of darkspawn before they reached their destination, but the five creatures fell quickly under sword, daggers and teeth.

A soldier ran toward them as they reached the base of the building, waving his arms to hail them. "You... you're Grey Wardens, aren't you?!" he asked. "The tower... it's been taken!"

"What are you talking about, man?" Alistair demanded. "Taken how?"

"Darkspawn came up from the lower chambers. They're everywhere! Most of our men are dead."

"Shit," Myranda swore. She turned to Alistair.

Alistair looked at her then up into the darkness toward the top of the tower. "Then we have to get to the beacon and light it ourselves!" he said.

Myranda nodded. "Right." She sheathed her daggers and pulled her bow from her shoulder. "I'll cover you." She looked at the soldier. "Gather what men you can... we have to retake the tower!"

"Not me!" the soldier said. "I'm getting out of here!"

"Don't be a coward! Stand and fight or I will _personally_ feed you to the darkspawn!"

He paled and nodded. "Right... I'll get who I can."

Myranda nodded, satisfied, and followed Alistair into the courtyard toward the tower's entrance. They were shortly joined by the soldier and what was left of his company: about twenty men at arms, three archers, and a mage, who quickly proved his worth in battle as he not only shot down darkspawn with bolts of ice and lightning, but cast occasional healing spells, as Myranda felt her strength returning to her just as her stamina was starting to fail. Myranda found she switched often between bow and daggers, offering ranged support until some of the darkspawn rushed the three archers and the mage, switching to her blades to cut them down before taking up her bow again.

They fought their way through the courtyard and into the tower itself, meeting a large group of darkspawn in the entry hall. They seemed to number without end, with more appearing as their brothers fell. She felt a sudden heat behind her right shoulder and looked to see the mage gathering a large fireball in his hands. "Duck!" she shouted to the soldiers ahead of her before the spell was released. She closed her eyes and saw the flash against her eyelids. When she opened her eyes again, most of the darkspawn lay charred in the middle of the floor, with only the three or four who had been outside the area of the attack continuing to offer resistance. Alistair lay on the ground, looking singed.

She trotted up to him, but the burns were apparently not as bad as they had appeared because he sat up on his own, though he groaned with the pain. "Are you all right?" she asked.

"I will be in a few minutes," he said, pulling a small bottle from his belt and downing the contents.

"Liquid courage?"

"Healing potion."

"Ah."

"Pardon me," the mage interrupted, stepping between the two Wardens and holding his hands out toward Alistair. They glowed white for a few minutes before the light faded and he nodded. "There you are, ser."

"Thanks," Alistair said, blinking hard as he got to his feet before looking at Myranda. "Let's go."

She nodded and followed him through the doorway at the far end of the room, down a short hallway and into the large central room, ringed with pillars. Most of the spaces between the pillars had been blocked by debris... all except one.

Myranda skidded to a halt and held up her hand. "Look out for the...!"

But it was too late. The men rushed by her, snapping the hair-thin tripwire and releasing a great flood of grease and fire onto their heads. And, of course, Alistair had been at the front of the pack.

"...Trap," Myranda finished with a sigh. She shook her head. They never listened... why did they never listen?

They made quick work of the rest of the darkspawn on the ground floor, and Myranda left five of the soldiers to hold it while the rest of them headed toward the second floor.

"Maker's breath!" Alistair said when they finally made it to the stairs. "What are these darkspawn doing ahead of the rest of the horde? There wasn't supposed to be any resistance here!"

Myranda looked at him over her shoulder. "You could try telling them they're in the wrong place," she suggested sarcastically.

He smirked. " _Right_. Because clearly this is all just a misunderstanding. We'll laugh about this later."

"Of course we will."

"At any rate, we need to hurry! We need to get up to the top of the tower and light the signal fire in time! Teyrn Loghain will be waiting for the signal!"

They fought their way through the second and third floors, leaving men posted on each to avoid an ambush—leaving them with just the mage as they reached the top of the tower. They burst through the door and skidded immediately to a stop at the horror that met them there. Baby's ears laid completely flat against his head as he growled menacingly at the beast.

Myranda felt icy fear grip the base of her spine and crawl up her back. "What in Andraste's name...?"

"Maker help us," Alistair whispered.

The massive ogre looked over at them and roared before charging toward them.

The four quickly separated, Alistair pushing Myranda one way as he ran the other, the mage following Myranda as Baby rushed toward the beast and ran between its legs to get behind it.

"Whatever you do," Alistair called, "don't let it grab you!"

"Stay out of range. Got it!" She ran around the creature to flank it as it lumbered back toward them, letting Alistair and Baby keep its attention. She shot an arrow to the back of its head, but it merely bounced off. She aimed slightly lower toward the neck, and while this time the arrow pierced its hide, the ogre seemed to take no more notice of it than if it were a fly. She pursed her lips and continued to fire, keeping a careful tally of the bolts she had left.

Apparently at one point it started to notice the pinpricks from her arrows, because the creature suddenly lashed out, knocking Myranda away. She hit her head on the stones and slid across the floor, blacking out for a few precious moments.

"Myranda!"

Myranda groaned and opened her eyes, gasping as she saw a massive fist being raised to crush her. She had barely rolled out of the way before it crashed down, making the whole floor shake. She clawed her way to her feet, running away and around the perimeter of the tower, scooping up her bow—which had somehow survived the attack—as a wave of healing magic washed over her.

"Thanks," she called to the mage. "Another one of those fireballs would help a lot, too!"

"Right!" he called, gathering flames in his hands.

"Baby! Alistair!" Myranda called. "Look out!"

But the increased heat did not escape the massive creature's notice. The mage screamed as he was suddenly grabbed and held suspended in midair, the magic ball of fire vanishing in a puff of smoke. One buffet from the ogre's other massive hand silenced him. Myranda shot an arrow into the ogre's hand to have it drop the mage—it was possible he was still alive, only stunned—but the hope of that was crushed when the creature flung the limp figure over the edge of the tower.

Myranda swore at the loss of their healer. "A strategy would be nice right about now!" she called to Alistair.

"Working on it!"

Baby barked, continuing to worry at the ogre's ankles and dodging its feeble attempts to grab or stomp him.

Myranda let loose another arrow, which flew into the creature's eye. Unfortunately, it also turned its attention from Alistair and Baby back to her. She watched as the creature put its head down, aiming its horns at her before charging at full speed like a rampaging bull.

"Heads up!"

She leapt out the way in the last moment, tucking and rolling as she hit the ground. She got to her feet in time to see the monster crash into the wall where the door stood, becoming trapped as debris rained down on its head. She circled around behind the beast towards Alistair after quickly glancing at Baby to see if the dog had been injured. "How's that strategy coming along?" she asked around her panting.

"Working on it."

"Well make it quick. I've only got two arrows left."

Alistair pursed his lips before making a decision. "Can you get one into its brain?"

"They can't pierce its skull. Trust me, I've been trying."

"They won't have to. Shoot through the roof of the mouth."

She glanced at him. "That's a tricky shot."

"I wouldn't trust anyone else to make it." He shot her a grin. "Besides, I'm sure you could make the shot through the gap in its teeth."

She smirked at him. "Just get me a clear shot," she said before moving away as the ogre managed to free itself. She shrank back into the shadows on the monster's blind side to avoid being seen as it turned and roared horribly. She watched Alistair and Baby harry and harass the creature, moving in the shadows to keep it in front of her. When the other Grey Warden suddenly ducked behind it, jumping onto its back and climbing up towards its shoulders, she pulled one of her two arrows from the quiver and placed it to the bowstring.

She pulled back and waited as the creature writhed trying to get to Alistair, watching carefully for her moment. "Come on," she murmured. "Come on..."

Suddenly Alistair plunged his sword into the back of the creature's neck between the plates of its armor, causing it to roar loudly in pain. Myranda took her chance and fired into its open mouth, watching the arrow disappear seconds before the roar was cut off. The ogre wavered for a few moments before toppling forward, falling to the stones with a resounding thud.

The collapse knocked Alistair from his perch about four feet above the ground. He landed on his feet, but stumbled and came close to falling himself.

Myranda moved to catch his shoulders. "Are you all right?" she asked.

He nodded. "We should go ahead and light the beacon," he told her. "We've surely missed the signal by now."

"Right." She grabbed one of the dry logs and held it to the bonfire, watching it catch before tossing it with all her strength back into the beacon's kindling. The dry wood ignited instantly, exploding into flame. She threw up her arm against the wave of heat that billowed toward her, stumbling backward. Her shoulders were caught and she looked back as Alistair released her again. "Thank you."

He nodded. "So now we just wait for word."

"Do you think they'll come for us?"

"I don't know."

"Damn! I hate waiting!" She walked over to the edge of the parapet, looking down at the battle in the valley below. "I can't make any sense of what's going on." She leaned forward, trying to get a better look, when a stone beneath her foot crumbled. She would have fallen except for Alistair's hand suddenly gripping her elbow, pulling her back.

Whether it was because he pulled her back with more force than was necessary or because she was already off balance she wasn't certain, but Myranda found herself slammed back against his chest with his arm wrapping around her waist. They stood together for a few moments before she looked back at him, noticing without meaning to the intimacy of their position. She watched how his eyes widened slightly and he blushed as he came to the same realization before he quickly released her and stepped away.

"Sorry," he muttered.

"It... it's ok," she stammered, feeling slightly feverish. That was twice in five minutes she'd tumbled into his arms… three times if one wanted to count the time he'd nearly fallen into hers. If she wasn't more careful he'd start to think she was doing it on purpose.

Although… it wasn't that she would _mind_...

She shook her head. Where in the Maker's name had _that_ come from?! Now was neither the time nor the place!

"How's your head?"

"I... uh... think I hit it harder than I originally thought," she said. She reached up and gingerly felt the bump on her skull. "I'm having a little trouble focusing. Or I was. I'm all right now." She cut off this drivel immediately, knowing how it would start to sound if she kept going. "How's your shoulder?"

"It's fine."

The door opened suddenly and, before any of them could attack, a rain of arrows flew toward them. Three took Myranda in the stomach, a fourth thudding into the center of her chest and into her sternum and a fifth embedding into her left shoulder. She fell back onto stones, her eyes rolling back as her world faded to nothing.


	8. Phoenix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Myranda and Alistair are now the only Grey Wardens left in Ferelden. They pick up a new... er... traveling companion... and the three make their way toward the village of Lothering.

**Chapter 8: Phoenix**

_"Confront them with annihilation, and they will then survive; plunge them into a deadly situation, and they will then live. When people fall into danger, they are then able to strive for victory." ~Sun Tzu_

 

Myranda winced as she floated up out of the darkness, opening her eyes to see a wooden ceiling above her. Her whole body ached, her head throbbed mightily, and she felt dizzy and disoriented.

"Ah, your eyes finally open. Mother shall be pleased."

Myranda turned her head slowly toward the owner of the voice: a svelte and exotic-looking young woman. "I remember you… the girl from the Wilds." Her voice was hoarse and almost unrecognizable even to herself.

"I am Morrigan, lest you have forgotten," the dark-haired young woman said. "And we are in the Wilds, where I am bandaging your wounds." She looked down at the blonde for a moment. "You are welcome, by the way."

Myranda struggled to sit up despite the pounding in her skull. She managed, though her head swam with the movement and made her dizzy. She noted immediately the definite chill in the air despite the fire burning in the nearby fireplace, and only then noticed that she wore nothing but her undergarments. She pulled the blanket up, moving carefully and taking an inventory of her body. Nothing seemed to be broken, though she was decidedly woozy.

"How does your memory fare?" Morrigan asked. "Do you remember Mother's rescue?"

Myranda lifted a hand to her head, closing her eyes to keep from looking at the room as it spun around her. "I remember being overwhelmed by darkspawn..."

"Mother managed to save you and your friend," the young witch said, "though 'twas a close call. What is important is that you both live." She looked down at the blonde woman for a moment before apparently making a decision. "The man who was to respond to your signal quit the field," she said slowly. "The darkspawn won your battle."

Myranda's eyes snapped open as she looked up at Morrigan in horror, ignoring how her stomach and head rioted at the sudden movements.

"Those he abandoned were massacred." She paused, uneasy with the look of shocked distress on the face of this strong woman and not sure what to do with it. "Your friend... he is not taking it well."

Myranda stared at her, trying to comprehend everything she was saying. Best to start with the easy part. "My friend," she repeated. "You mean Alistair?"

Morrigan's lip curled slightly in disgust. "The suspicious, dim-witted one who was with you before, yes."

Selfish relief washed through the Grey Warden's veins. At least she wasn't alone this time. Then the full implications of what Morrigan had said crashed down on her. She wasn't alone but they—she and Alistair—were. The Grey Wardens... and Cailan.... Loghain hadn't responded to the signal… and Cailan and Duncan and the other Grey Wardens had been slaughtered like lambs. She lowered her head back into her hands. "Maker have mercy on us," she whispered. "This is horrible."

"Of that I have no doubt," Morrigan said almost gently. "Your friend has been inconsolable since Mother told him the news after he woke yesterday afternoon." She nodded toward the door when the blonde slowly looked back at her. "He is outside by the fire. Mother asked to see you when you awoke."

Myranda started to shift positions and winced at the pain that shot through her shoulder. "Were my injuries severe?" she asked, rubbing the problem muscle.

"Yes, but I expect you shall be fine. The darkspawn did nothing Mother could not heal."

Green eyes lifted to the young witch. "Thank you for helping me, Morrigan," she said sincerely.

Morrigan looked stunned by this simple gratitude. "I..." her voice trailed off for a moment before she shrugged it away. "You are welcome, though Mother did most of the work. I am no healer."

"I have some questions, if you don't mind."

"I do not mind," Morrigan said graciously. "Take your time."

"Are there any survivors besides us?"

"Only stragglers that are long gone... and this mangy beast which is responsible for the shallow wound on your leg and has refused to leave your side."

Myranda looked down toward the foot of the bed to see her mabari sitting there, panting and somehow looking smug. "Baby!" she cried. "I can't believe you're here! What a smart boy."

Baby barked happily, licking her outstretched hand.

"You know this mongrel, then?"

"Yes, he's mine." She rubbed the dog's head affectionately and looked up at the other woman. "Do you think we could go back and look for other survivors?"

"'Twould be unwise. You... would not want to see what is happening in that valley now."

Myranda narrowed her eyes. "Why?" she asked slowly. "What's happening?"

"Are you sure you want me to describe it?"

She nodded. "Yes... please."

"I had a good view of the battlefield," Morrigan said. "'Tis a grisly scene. There are bodies everywhere, and darkspawn swarm them... feeding, I think."

Myranda tried not to linger on the mental image of the darkspawn feeding on the bodies of the dead. She had asked for the description—queasiness would be a show of weakness now.

"They also look for survivors and drag them back down beneath the ground. I cannot say why."

Myranda puzzled over this for a few moments before the pounding in her skull forced her stop. "Why did your mother save us?" she asked.

"I wonder at that myself, but she tells me nothing." Morrigan shrugged slightly. "Perhaps you were the only ones she could reach. _I_ would have rescued your king. A king would be worth a much higher ransom than you."

Myranda blinked. "Coin is important to you? Out here?"

"Who says I would ransom for coin?" the witch countered. "Gold has its uses, I suppose, but power buys far more."

"How did she manage it, exactly? I can't imagine she fought her way through the tower."

"She turned into a giant bird and plucked the two of you from atop the tower, one in each talon." She watched as the other woman blinked in surprised disbelief. "If you do not believe that tale, then I suggest you ask Mother yourself." She smirked. "She may even tell you."

"Are we safe here? Where are the darkspawn?"

"We are safe, for the moment. Mother's magic keeps the darkspawn away. Once you leave, however, 'tis uncertain what will happen. The horde has moved on, so you might avoid it." She waved her hand dismissively. "You must speak to Mother, then begone," she said. "You have an army of darkspawn to avoid, and 'twould be best to get an early start."

"You're right. I should go." She stood slowly, holding out one arm to steady herself as she clutched the blanket around her. She reached down and patted Baby shakily as he trotted over to help support her. "Just... give me a moment to regain my balance."

 

 

After redressing in her armor and her weapons and silently praising the Maker she still had her family sword, Myranda pushed open the door on its surprisingly silent hinges and stepped out with Baby onto the small, short platform that held up the tiny hut. The sun was on the western side of its zenith, signaling it was closer to evening than midday. There was an eerie quiet around the place despite the constant song of dozens of frogs and insects that inhabited the marsh. Alistair stood on the bank, staring out over the water, though she doubted he was seeing any of it.

"See?" Morrigan's mother's voice cut in, startling Myranda and drawing her gaze. "Here is your fellow Grey Warden. You worry too much, young man."

Myranda looked back over at Alistair to find him staring at her in disbelief.

"You..." he breathed, taking a step toward her as if in a dream, "you're alive!" He stared at her for a few moments before a short bark of relieved laughter escaped him. "I thought you were dead for sure."

"I'm fine, thanks to Morrigan and her mother," she replied, descending the three steps and walking over to him. She managed a slight smile. "I appreciate your concern."

"This doesn't seem real," he said, still sounding in shock. "Like a nightmare. If it weren't for Morrigan's mother, we'd be dead on top of that tower."

"Do not talk about me as if I am not present, lad," the old witch said.

Alistair looked over at her. "I didn't mean... but what do we call you? You never told us your name...."

"Names are pretty, but useless." The old woman shrugged. "The Chasind folk call me Flemeth. I suppose it will do."

" _The_... Flemeth?" Alistair asked hesitantly. "From the legends?" He paled considerably as he stared at the old woman. "Daveth was right," he breathed in partial horror. "You're the Witch of the Wilds, aren't you?"

"And what does that mean?" Flemeth demanded. "I know a bit of magic, and it has served you both well, has it not?"

Myranda reached over and touched Alistair's arm to steady him as she turned to Flemeth. "I suppose we should thank you."

The witch snorted. "If you know what is good for you, I suppose you should!"

"So why _did_ you save us?"

A hint of a smile touched Flemeth's lips. "Well, we cannot have all the Grey Wardens dying at once, can we? Someone has to deal with these darkspawn." The smirk vanished. "It has always been the Grey Wardens' duty to unite the lands against the Blight," she said before eyeing them closely. "Or did that change when I wasn't looking?"

"No, of course it didn't!" Myranda looked back at Alistair. "But Ferelden can't be united under Loghain after what he's done. I know several of the arls who would never stand for this."

"But it doesn't make any sense!" Alistair said. "Why would he do it?"

"Now _that_ is a good question," Flemeth said. An almost sad look crossed her features then. "Men's hearts hold shadows darker than any tainted creature."

"But it still doesn't make any sense," Myranda said.

"Perhaps he believes the Blight is an army he can outmaneuver. Perhaps he does not see that the evil behind it is the true threat."

"The archdemon," Alistair said.

Myranda nodded. "Then we need to find this archdemon."

Alistair looked at her in partial horror. "By _ourselves_?" he asked incredulously. "No Grey Warden has ever defeated a Blight without the army of a half-dozen nations at his back!" He paused uncomfortably. "Not to mention, I don't _know_ how."

"How to kill the archdemon," Flemeth interrupted, "or how to raise an army? It seems to me those are two different questions, hmm?" Her lips started to form a smirk and she lifted an eyebrow at them. "Have the Wardens no allies these days?"

Alistair looked uncertain. "I... I don't know." He turned to Myranda then. "Duncan said that the Grey Wardens of Orlais had been called. And Arl Eamon would never stand for this, surely."

"Arl Eamon?" the blonde repeated, latching onto the familiar name. "The arl of Redcliffe?"

He nodded. "I suppose... Arl Eamon wasn't at Ostagar; he still has all his men. And he was Cailan's uncle."

"I know him," Myranda assured him. "Rather, I know of him. He's a good man, respected in the Landsmeet."

"Of course! We could go to Redcliffe and appeal to him for help!"

She nodded. "And surely everyone will see the danger the Blight poses," she said. Her confidence started to fade when Alistair seemed to wilt next to her and remained silent for too many moments. "...Right?" she asked.

"You could wait for the archdemon to make its appearance," Flemeth said sarcastically. "I imagine _that_ might be convincing."

Alistair shook his head, not looking at Myranda. "It's been centuries since the last Blight. Nobody will take it seriously until it's too late."

"We'll find a way," the blonde said determinedly. "It's up to us, after all."

"You have more at your disposal than you think," Flemeth said.

The two Grey Wardens looked at her, then at each other before it suddenly struck Myranda what the older woman was talking about. "The treaties! I still have them in my quiver... Duncan never took them from me!"

Alistair stared at her, replaying the night in his mind. "You're right! Of course! Grey Wardens can demand aid from dwarves, elves, mages, and other places! They're obligated to help us during a Blight!"

"I may be old," Flemeth interrupted, "but dwarves, elves, mages, this Arl Eamon, and who knows what else... this sounds like an army to me."

"So can we do this?" Alistair asked Myranda, ignoring the old woman's sarcasm. "Go to Redcliffe and these other places and... build an army?"

"Why not? Isn't that what Grey Wardens do?" She took his right wrist in a knight's handshake, which he returned. "We will fight this," she said, "and we will win."

"So you are set, then?" Flemeth asked. "Ready to be Grey Wardens?"

Myranda turned to her and nodded. "Yes. Thank you for everything, Flemeth."

"No, no," the older woman said, "thank _you_." Though sincere, she didn't sound overtly grateful. "You are the Grey Wardens here, not I." She smiled a little. "Now... before you go, there is yet one more thing I can offer you."

At that moment, Morrigan walked out of the hut and over to the older woman. "The stew is bubbling, Mother dear," she announced. She looked at the Grey Wardens. "Shall we have two guests for the eve or none?" She asked the question as if she expected the latter answer.

"The Grey Wardens are leaving shortly, girl," Flemeth said. "And _you_ will be joining them."

"Such a shame..." Morrigan blinked and looked at her mother. "What?!"

"You heard me, girl. The last time I looked, you had ears!" the old woman said with a laugh.

Myranda frowned. "Thank you," she said, "but if Morrigan doesn't wish to join us..."

"Her magic will be useful," Flemeth cut her off dismissively. "Even better, she knows the Wilds and how to get past the horde."

"Have I _no_ say in this?" Morrigan asked incredulously.

"You have been itching to get out of the Wilds for years. Here is your chance." She turned her hard, cold eyes to Myranda and Alistair again. "As for you, Wardens," she said, "consider this repayment for your lives."

Myranda nodded. "Very well," she said, "we'll take her with us."

"Not to look a gift horse in the mouth," Alistair began, "but won't this add to our problems? Out of the Wilds, she's an apostate."

"If you do not wish help from us illegal mages, young man," Flemeth said coldly, "perhaps I should have left you on that tower."

Alistair winced, partly from the words, but mostly from Myranda elbowing him in the ribs. "Point taken."

"Mother," Morrigan began again, "this is not how I wanted this! I am not even ready..."

"You _must_ be ready. Alone, these two must unite Ferelden against the darkspawn." She took the young witch's arm and pulled her a couple steps away, though she spoke so that Myranda could still hear. "They need you, Morrigan. Without you, they will surely fail, and all will perish under the Blight. Even I."

Morrigan sighed heavily. "I... understand."

Flemeth looked up again. "And you, Wardens? Do you understand?" she asked with underlying menace. "I give you that which I value above all in this world. I do this because you _must_ succeed."

"We understand," Myranda said, speaking for both of them. "She'll come to no harm with us."

Baby barked as if in agreement.

Morrigan sighed heavily. "Allow me to get my things, if you please."

Myranda nodded. "Certainly."

"I still don't know about this," Alistair muttered when the young witch had vanished back into the hut with Flemeth right behind her.

Bright green eyes turned to him. "What do you mean?"

"I just... do you really want to take her along because her mother says so?"

"We need all the help we can get," she whispered.

He sighed. "I guess you're right." He looked up, alerting Myranda to Morrigan's return. "The Grey Wardens have always taken allies where they could find them," he said, adding the last part with scornful displeasure.

"I am so pleased to have your approval," Morrigan said sarcastically.

Myranda closed her eyes and sighed. It was going to be a long trip, no matter where they ended up going.

"I am at your disposal, Grey Wardens," the young witch said with heavy resignation. "I suggest a village north of the Wilds as our first destination. 'Tis not far and you will find much you need there." She glanced at Alistair then, a sneer crossing her lips. "Or, if you prefer," she continued, biting out the words, "I shall simply be your silent guide." She looked at Myranda. "The choice is yours."

"No," Myranda said, "I prefer you speak your mind."

Flemeth laughed from the doorway to the hut. "You will regret saying that."

"Dear, _sweet_ mother," Morrigan said, her voice dripping acid, "you are so _kind_ to cast me out like this. How _fondly_ I shall remember this moment."

"Well, I always said if you want something done, do it yourself," Flemeth said. Then she continued under her breath, "or hear about it for a decade or two afterwards."

"It will be dark soon," Myranda said, cutting off all further argument and conversation. "We should be going." Even though the old witch had saved their lives, she still couldn't shake the feeling of being near a hungry dragon.

Morrigan sighed heavily. "Farewell, Mother," she said dismissively to the woman on the platform to the hut. "Do not forget the stew on the fire. I would hate to return to a burned-down hut."

Flemeth let out a short laugh that sounded more like a bark before continuing harshly. "'Tis far more likely you will return to see this entire area, along with my hut, swallowed up by the Blight."

Myranda seemed confused by this callous answer. She glanced at Morrigan, who looked, surprisingly, genuinely hurt.

"I... all I meant was..."

"Yes, I know," Flemeth said with a slight smile. "Do try to have fun, dear."

Morrigan's face dropped into a more normal stoic expression. "Shall we go?" she said to the two Grey Wardens, turning and walking away without waiting for a response.

Myranda and Alistair exchanged a look before following, Baby trotting along behind.

 

 

Myranda jogged to catch up to Morrigan as the sun sank lower and the shadows of the trees lengthened and grew darker. "I have some questions," she said, "if you don't mind."

"I may have answers," Morrigan said. "Ask."

"Tell me about this village to the north."

Morrigan shrugged. "'Tis a small place of little consequence called Lothering. No more than a stop along your Imperial Highway where travelers purchase goods from local farms and smiths."

"Ah, yes. We passed it on our way to Ostagar."

"I would go more often were it not for the town's chantry," Morrigan went on. "It makes the village particularly intolerant and unpleasant for a stranger such as me."

"A chantry?" Alistair asked. "And they never, in all this time, thought that _maybe_ you were a witch?"

"Of course they have. They even called out their templars once." The young witch snorted in a derisive laugh. "They found nothing."

"Have you never been outside the Wilds?" Myranda asked.

"From time to time. I have been to the village I mentioned, watched its people, and pondered what curious beings they are. On occasion, I purchased goods from the village merchants. There I spoke with men, a little." A sour look crossed her features. "There they stared and knew me as an outsider." She looked at Myranda directly then. "Mother wishes for me to expand the horizon of my experience beyond the Wilds. Even she was not born here."

"Is that what _you_ want?"

"What _I_ want," Morrigan said, "is to see mountains. I wish to witness the ocean and step into its waters. I... want to _experience_ a city rather than see it in my mind."

Myranda was somewhat surprised by the amount of passion that entered the other young woman's voice.

"So, yes, this is what I want. Actually leaving is... harder than I thought, however." She paused as if considering the situation. "Perhaps Mother is right," she said, sounding surprised, "it must simply be done quickly."

"How are we going to get past the darkspawn?"

Morrigan lifted her eyes to look over Myranda's shoulder at Alistair. "The real question is how we are going to get your _friend_ past the darkspawn." She returned her golden eyes to Myranda's green ones. "Is it not?"

"That's true," Alistair noted. "We can sense the darkspawn. Conversely, they can sense us."

"That's not reassuring," Myranda told him.

"We should be able to sneak past smaller groups," he told her, "but larger ones or particularly intelligent darkspawn will always detect us."

"And how many of _those_ are there, with the army at our heels?"

"Mother has given me something else for them to 'smell' instead as we pass by," Morrigan said. "'Tis important we head out of the Wilds, however, not farther in."

"The darkspawn are camped farther in the forest, I presume."

"They come from underground, like an eruption. They broke through deep within the forest and _that_ is where they will be most concentrated."

"So they could pop up out of the ground like so many weeds at any moment?" Myranda asked. " _Lovely_ ," she said sarcastically. "Charming place, these Wilds."

"It was before it became infected with your darkspawn."

"Not mine," the blonde said, shaking her head. "I won't claim them. I just fight them. Although, speaking of fighting, what skills do you have, exactly?"

"I know a few spells," the young witch said, "though I am nowhere near as powerful as Mother. I have also studied history." She gave Myranda a look. "And your Grey Warden treaties."

"Can you cook?" Alistair asked.

Morrigan looked over at him, wrinkling her nose in slight disgust. "I... _can_ cook... yes."

"Oh, good. You can substitute for me, then. My cooking will kill us all."

Morrigan smiled suddenly, though the look was more threatening than anything. "I also know at least fifteen different poisons that grow right here in this marsh. Not that I would suggest 'tis at all related to cooking," she added with a mock-innocence that fooled no one.

"Never mind him," Myranda said. "You don't have to cook."

"You missed your chance," Alistair murmured to her. "Now it's charred rabbit from here on out."

"'Tis best we do not speak overmuch," Morrigan said. "Though they may not smell you, darkspawn have ears. Until we reach a place of more safety, 'twould be best to remain silent until we slip by."

They traveled through the night and all the next day, resting only briefly and keeping silent nearly the entire time. Once or twice Myranda thought she sensed darkspawn drawing near, but the feeling vanished as quickly as it had come.

On the second evening, Morrigan led them to a small clearing, indicating it would be a safe place for them to stop for the night.

"Sleep while you have the chance," she told them. "Your wounds have not completely healed, and it would be wise for you to rest now while you can. I shall stand guard and see that the wolves leave you be."

"Is it safe enough for a fire?"

"A small one, perhaps."

Myranda nodded slightly. "Very well." She placed her pack on the ground and when she looked up again, the other woman was gone. She looked around and shrugged.

The two Grey Wardens soon had their fire going near a small outcropping of rock, sheltered from the wind that blew up from the south. Baby caught and brought back a half-eaten rabbit, and though her stomach growled at the thought of food, Myranda refused the gift. She didn't refuse the second, intact rabbit he brought back.

She shared the meager meal with Alistair, who ate without seeming to notice the food at all. Myranda frowned. The gloom that had surrounded him during their silent march had been almost tangible, and she had almost been able to see him sinking into a dark despair. "Are... you all right?" she asked finally after they had sat in a terrible silence for nearly an hour after the paltry supper.

He shook his head a little. "I just... can't believe what's happened."

She sighed. "Neither can I," she murmured. "But we'll make it," she said, with more confidence than she actually felt. "We'll muddle through somehow. It's up to us, after all." After a few silent minutes, she looked at him and was about to tell him to get some sleep when he suddenly clutched her to him, burying his face against her neck. She tensed, unsure of what to do until she realized that he was shaking. It was only then that she heard his nearly silent sobs. She sighed gently, wrapping her arms around him and cradling his head against her shoulder.

"Oh, Alistair," she whispered, closing her eyes and leaning her head against his. "Shh... shh... it'll be all right." It broke her heart to hear him quietly pouring out his grief, and without thinking she began to rock gently back and forth, still cradling him to her as she would a child. His arms tightened around her waist and she rubbed his back gently. "Shh... it's all right. I know... I know. Hush... hush now, it's all right. You're not alone... I'm here." She felt the tears stinging her own eyes and fought them back. It wouldn't help him for her to fall apart as well. She had to be strong for the both of them. "I'm here and I'm all right. Hush... hush... shh..." She continued to whisper softly to him as he cried on her shoulder until he finally succumbed to exhaustion. Even after he fell asleep she didn't stop her gentle rocking.

He needed her. She could and would curl into herself and harden her heart against her own grief for Duncan and her brother as she had for her parents, but it could not be a complete transformation as long as Alistair needed her. She would have to support him for a time until he came to deal with the pain on his own. But that was all right... it was her duty to support him, and so she would, however long it took. She only hoped for his sake that it would not take too long.

 

 

The next morning it was as if the night's outpouring of grief had never happened. He didn't mention it and she didn't bring it up. The only hinting at it was when she cast him a concerned look, which he answered with a half-smile that wasn't incredibly convincing. They traveled north silently all that day and stopped that evening, Morrigan building a small fire away from the larger one that Myranda, Alistair and Baby shared. Myranda wondered if she should try talking to Alistair, but thought it best to leave him alone and let him cope with his pain on his own. She doubted very much that he would appreciate a repeat of the previous evening.

After another scant meal, Myranda wandered over to Morrigan's small camp. She paused when the young witch looked up at her.

"What do you wish of me?" she asked, though without the venom Myranda was expecting.

"I'd like to ask you something."

Morrigan shrugged. "If you must."

The blonde sat warily outside the ring of light from Morrigan's fire. "Did you grow up in the Korcari Wilds?"

Gold eyes snapped to her. "Why do you ask me such questions?" she asked. "I do not probe _you_ for pointless information, do I?"

Myranda shrugged, unperturbed. "You could if you wanted to," she said. "I wouldn't mind."

"Oh, what luck," the witch said with sarcastic glee. She sighed then. "What is it you asked? If I 'grew up' in the Wilds?" She gave Myranda a strange look when she nodded. "A curious question. Where else would you picture me?"

Green eyes blinked before one corner of the Grey Warden's lips lifted fractionally. "Honestly, nowhere." She shook her head a little. "You were alone, then?"

"For many years it was simply Flemeth and I," Morrigan said. "The Wilds and its creatures were more real to me than Flemeth's tales of the world of man. In time, I grew curious. I left the Wilds to explore what lay beyond. Never for long." She waved a casually dismissive hand. "Brief forays into a civilized wilderness."

"But you kept going back to the Wilds?"

"Would you not do the same?" Morrigan asked. "Your world is an unforgiving and cold place. The Wilds is home to me, and I a natural denizen." She paused for a few thoughtful moments. "For all that I had been taught, however, the truth of the civilized lands proved to be... overwhelming."

"Overwhelming?"

"I was unfamiliar with so much. So confident and bold was I, yet there was much that Flemeth could never have prepared me for."

Myranda smirked. "Very daring. That sounds like you."

The other woman laughed a little. "Equal parts daring and foolhardy, perhaps," she said with a slightly chagrined look. "Only once was I accused of being a Witch of the Wilds, and that by a Chasind who happened to be traveling with a merchant caravan."

"What happened?"

"He pointed and gasped and began shouting in his strange language, and most assumed he was casting some curse upon me. I acted the terrified girl, and naturally he was arrested."

"That was quick thinking."

Morrigan scoffed, though lightly. "Men are always willing to believe two things about a woman: one, that she is weak, and two, that she finds him attractive. I played the weakling and batted my eyelashes at the captain of the guard." She smirked. "Child's play."

Myranda was silent as she considered this. She had had experience with the first point, but the second had never even occurred to her.

"The point being that I was able to move through human lands fairly easily. Whatever humans think a Witch of the Wild looks like, 'tis not I."

"They probably think of someone like Flemeth... only older and more evil, cackling to herself." She heard a soft sound and was surprised to realize it was Morrigan laughing softly in her throat.

"It is possible," Morrigan conceded. "Not that I did not have trouble. There are things about human society which have always puzzled me... such as the _touching_ ," she said suddenly. "Why all the touching for a simple greeting?

Myranda blinked and focused on the other woman again. "Touching? Like a handshake?"

"To begin with, yes. What is the point of touching my hand? I find it an offensive intrusion."

"It..." the blonde woman's voice trailed off as she thought about Morrigan's point. "I'm not sure I can explain it," she said finally.

"I've yet to find one who can. But there were many nuances that Flemeth could never tell me of. When to look into another's eyes, how to eat at a table, how to bargain without offending... none of these things I knew. I still do not understand it all, truth be told."

"There's still time to learn."

The witch waved this away. "I gave up long ago any hope of doing so. When I returned to the Wilds last, I swore to Flemeth that I had no intention of leaving again."

"And yet, here we are." Myranda let herself smile slightly. "Well, I'm glad it worked out this way, at least."

Morrigan lifted an eyebrow. "Yes? Let's ignore the entire darkspawn threat and the presence of a simpleton as your only other Grey Warden ally, then." She paused uncomfortably. "Not that I lack appreciation for the intent of your comment. Thank you."

 

 

Three evenings later, Myranda went to speak with Morrigan again, trying to get an idea of how much farther they would be traveling. As they had given Ostagar a wide berth and she was unfamiliar with the forest, she hadn't any idea where they were. She was surprised, therefore, when Morrigan said it would be a few more days yet.

"Did it always take you so long to get to Lothering when you went?"

"No, but then often I flew toward the village."

Myranda blinked in surprise. "Flew?" she repeated.

"I would change into the form of a bird and fly to the outskirts of the village. 'Twould take far less time."

"How did you become a shapechanger?"

"I was not born such," Morrigan told her. "'Tis a skill of Flemeth's, taught over many years in the Wilds. The Chasind have tales of we witches, saying that we assume the forms of creatures to watch them from hiding. When a child is alone and separate from his tribe, that is when we strike, dragging the young boy kicking and screaming to our lair to be devoured." She smiled, a slightly vicious look. "A most amusing legend."

Myranda looked at her warily. "But it's just a legend, right?"

"So I assume. My mother has walked the Wilds far longer than I. Who am I to suggest what things she has done and not done in her past?" The young witch gave her a slightly suspicious look. "Why do you ask? Is there something specific you wish to know?"

"Can anyone become a shapechanger?"

"Anyone with sufficient will," Morrigan confirmed. "But the act of transformation is a magical one. 'Tis a spell, and thus requires a mage's talents. If you had a notion to learn such a skill for yourself, sadly you must remain disappointed."

Myranda sighed a little. "I assumed as much." She was quiet for a moment before asking, "Can you change into other human forms, as well?"

"The form of an animal is different from my own," Morrigan said. "One may study the creature, learn to move as it does... _think_ as it does. In time, this allows one to become as it is." She shook her head. "I gain nothing by studying another human. I already am the same as they are, I learn nothing. So the answer is no, my human form is the only one I possess."

"That's too bad. It could be incredibly useful."

"I fail to see the purpose."

"Well, it could be fun to change into the form of a Chantry mother and give all sorts of strange orders and watch the havoc ensue."

One corner of Morrigan's mouth lifted in a half smile.

"Did you spend a lot of time as an animal?" Myranda asked, returning to the original line of inquiry.

"There were nights when the Wilds called to me," Morrigan said, almost wistfully, "'tis true. You look upon the world around you and you think you know it well. I have smelled it as a wolf, listened as a cat, prowled shadows that you never _dreamed_ existed."

"One would think you would remain as an animal more often, then."

"My life is as a human," Morrigan told her. "I am under no illusions to the contrary."

"And what do other animals think of you when you're changed?"

"They do not shy away from me. To their senses, I believe I seem like any other of their species. As to what they think..." her voice trailed off and she shrugged. "I truly cannot say. Just as I am still human, no matter my form, they are still animals. Thus they cannot speak, even were I to ask."

Myranda shook her head. "Amazing. I've never heard of magic like that before."

"No?" Golden eyes regarded her with fractional surprise. "'Tis not unheard of, in the remote corners of the world. There are traditions of magic outside of the Circle of Magi, despite what those mages would have you believe. Some of these traditions are old, indeed, passed down as carefully-guarded lore from one generation to the next."

"Is there a lot of magic like that?"

"Not as many as there once were." Morrigan curled her lip slightly. "The zealots of the Chantry would uproot all such practitioners if they could, and have tried. But as luck would have it some still exist. My mother is such a one."

"That's good," Myranda said, nodding. "Such traditions need to be preserved."

"I am surprised you think so," the young witch said. "Still, 'tis a pleasant thing to hear."

"That's all I wanted to ask."

"Indeed?" She looked over at the blonde woman. "Have you an opinion on my abilities, then?" she asked. "Am I an unnatural abomination to be put to the torch?"

Myranda smiled a little. "I think attempting to put you to the torch would only make you angry. Personally, I think your abilities sound quite useful."

"A most practical opinion," Morrigan said with a slight nod of approval. "Far more so than any man I have spoken to."

"Well I have often found women to be the more practical of the species."

"And yet another wizened opinion from you." She smirked. "I believe I do like you, Grey Warden."

"Myranda," the blonde corrected gently. "Please."

"Very well. Myranda, then."

"Thank you."

 

 

"Are you really Flemeth's daughter?" Myranda asked Morrigan as they sat together two nights later.

"'Twas she who raised me and thus I consider her my mother," Morrigan said, "born from her womb or not." She eyed the Grey Warden then. "'Tis what you meant, yes?"

"Yes, I... suppose so. I just... I find it a bit strange that you call her by her given name."

"'Tis who she is, so why should I not call her such?"

"It just seems... strange to call one's mother by her name. Most people don't." She smirked then. "But you aren't most people, are you?"

"You have become quite perceptive to my answers. 'Tis good that you are learning."

"I try." She paused. "Is she just going to stay in the Wilds alone? Even with an entire army of darkspawn knocking at her door?"

"Mother was alone _long_ before I came and will be so long after I am dead. Such is her choice, though I suspect she would claim the choice was made for her."

Myranda pondered this for a moment before deciding to ask the true question on her mind about the old witch. "Is she really what she seems to be?"

Morrigan smiled and chuckled softly to herself. "Well that depends, does it not?" she countered. "What does she 'seem to be'?"

"She seems to be an old woman." Myranda was about to go on, but stopped when the other woman started to laugh, loudly and long. Unexpected as it was, the sound wasn't unpleasant.

"Oh, she is certainly old," Morrigan said when she'd calmed down. "Have no mistake of that."

"But she also gave me the distinct impression of a dragon waiting for its next meal to foolishly wander too close."

"A spider in its web?" the mage asked, lifting an eyebrow.

Myranda frowned. "That's... not a comparison _I_ would make, though it is appropriate."

The other woman smirked. "Tell me: how much do you know of the tale? The one that the Chasind still tell of my mother, to frighten them into obedience?"

The Grey Warden shook her head. "I didn't even know there was such a thing."

"Ah! I see. That does explain much."

Myranda's eyes narrowed slightly, unsure if the other woman was suddenly mocking her.

"I can relay what Flemeth once told me, herself," Morrigan offered, "and you can decide whether or not 'tis the truth." She inclined her head slightly then. "If you desire."

"That sounds interesting," Myranda agreed.

"As the tale is sung by the bards," Morrigan began, "there was a time when Flemeth was young and beautiful. A fair lass in a land of barbarian men, the desire of any who saw her."

"And just how long ago is this?"

"Many centuries, before this land was even named Ferelden."

Myranda's eyebrows shot up. "Go on."

"The tales say that Flemeth fell in love with Osen, the bard, and fled the castle of her husband, the dread Lord Conobar, and that he swore vengeance for her infidelity."

"I _do_ know the story," Myranda said. "Conobar was killed by a demon summoned by his wife Flemeth, ending the Elstan bloodline in Highever and allowing the Couslands—my family—to inherit the lands and title. I didn't realize she was... _that_ Flemeth."

The young witch shook her head. "In truth, my mother claims that 'twas Osen who was her husband, and Conobar the jealous lord who looked on from afar."

"Really?"

"Lord Conobar approached young Osen and offered him wealth and power in exchange for his lovely wife. And Osen agreed."

Myranda took a breath. "Flemeth must have been angry," she said. "I would have been."

"The life of a bard is a poor one," Morrigan said, "and love fades in the wake of hunger. 'Twas Flemeth who suggested the arrangement."

"Hm. Then she was a better woman than me."

"All would have been well had Lord Conobar kept his end of the bargain. But he was a foul man who bargained with coin he did not possess. Osen was led off to a field and slain, left for dead. Flemeth spoke to the spirits and learned of the deed, and swore revenge."

"So she truly loved Osen, then," Myranda said softly.

"That was not the point," Morrigan countered, almost harshly. "Conobar had no honor, so she would not have him. She begged the spirits to aid her and 'twas they who slew Conobar. The demon the legend tells of came later."

"Later in history?"

"Later in time. Lord Conobar's allies chased Flemeth, you see. Chased her to the Wilds and there she hid. There she found the demon and he made her strong."

"So she became an abomination?" Myranda asked, slightly confused. "Aren't abominations usually insane horrors?"

"How often is this 'usually?'" Morrigan asked. "Always? If not always, then when is it not true?"

Green eyes blinked in surprise at the question. "That's... a valid point. I'd never thought of it before."

"There are more things in this world and the next than you or I could ever hope to understand," the dark haired woman said. "What Flemeth became is a mystery... I suspect even to her." She shrugged. "But that is her story, as she tells it."

"Do you believe her version?" Myranda asked.

"I do not believe everything that Flemeth claims. Oft it seems her bitterness has colored her memories. But on the whole? Yes. I believe this tale, if not all."

"An interesting story. Thank you."

Morrigan waved this away dismissively. "Flemeth tells it with _far_ more embellishment than I. But... you are welcome." She paused, then said, "Dare I ask of your own mother? Few are abominations of legend, 'tis true, but I find myself curious nevertheless."

The blonde woman frowned, looking back toward Alistair and the main part of the camp to hide the tears that welled in her eyes. "My mother died," she said softly. "Recently, in fact."

"Ah. Then you have my sympathies, for what it is worth." She paused uncomfortably as the Grey Warden turned back toward the small fire, keeping her eyes on the ground. "Which is very little, I am certain. It matters not."

"No, no... thank you." Myranda sighed and looked over toward the main part of the camp again.

"You have done a great deal of sighing recently," Morrigan said, her sarcastic voice as always making the simple observation sound like a criticism.

"I'm... worried about Alistair," Myranda admitted.

"If he is suffering, at least he does so quietly," the young witch spat. "He needs to learn to contend with death if he is to be an effective Grey Warden."

"But he isn't coping." She looked back toward the other fire again. "Maybe I should try and talk to him."

"Why would you destroy the monumental peace we have enjoyed these several days?"

"Because not everyone is as callous and cold as we are," Myranda said as she stood. "Nor should they be. Too many of us would destroy the world as no Blight ever could."

"So you will indulge his weakness."

"Kindness and compassion are not weaknesses, Morrigan. They may in fact prove to save us all." She nodded her farewell and walked away as the apostate mage stared at her in skeptical bewilderment.

Her steps slowed as she walked up behind the other Grey Warden, suddenly unsure if this was a good idea. Perhaps Morrigan was right: perhaps he needed to learn to deal with this on his own. No… he was suffering in his silence and she needed to ease that pain so he wouldn't do something stupid and throw himself blindly into the next group of darkspawn they came across. She perhaps wasn't the best councilor, but she was a Grey Warden, and as one half of the only surviving pair in Ferelden, she had to do something.

She noticed how he started when she placed her hand lightly on his shoulder, trying to smile a little when he looked up at her. "Hello."

"What do you need?" His voice was flat and lifeless.

Myranda's attempted smile faded and she gestured to the place next to him. "May I join you for a moment?"

"If you want."

She sat awkwardly next to him, making a great show of holding her hands out toward the fire as she tried to figure out where to begin. In the end, she decided on the direct approach. "Do you want to talk about Duncan?"

Alistair sighed and lowered his eyes to the ground. "You don't have to do that. I know you didn't know him as long as I did."

She looked over at him in shock. "That doesn't mean I don't mourn his loss," she said.

He sighed again. "I... should have handled it better," he said. "Duncan warned me right from the beginning that this could happen. Any of us could die in battle. I shouldn't have lost it, not when so much is riding on us, not with the Blight and... and everything." He looked over at her then, his face gravely solemn. "I'm sorry."

Myranda smiled, though she knew it didn't reach her eyes. It never did anymore. "There's no need to apologize."

He nodded slightly and looked back at the fire. "I'd... like to have a proper funeral for him. Maybe once this is all done, if we're still alive. I don't think he had any family to speak of."

"He had you," she interjected softly.

"I suppose he did." He looked over at her then. "It probably sounds stupid, but part of me wishes I was with him. In the battle. I feel like I abandoned him."

Myranda frowned and looked away. The sound of her father's dying moans and of her mother's voice as she fought off Howe's men rang loudly in her ears. The remembered sight of Oriana and Oren murdered in cold blood burned in her memory. The taste of Rory's good-bye kiss still lingered on her lips. Her nights were plagued by her guilt. Why hadn't she insisted she stay? Why hadn't she fought to save her parents? Why...? "No," she murmured. "No, I understand completely." She barely heard him as he responded.

"Of course I'd be dead, then, wouldn't I? It's not like that would make him happier." He looked back toward their campfire. "I think he came from Highever, or so he said. Maybe I'll go up there sometime, see about putting up something in his honor. I don't know." He looked over at her uncertainly. "Have you... had someone close to you die? Not that I mean to pry, I'm just..."

Myranda rallied herself, shutting out the sound of her mother screaming and the sight of her father dead on the floor of the larder. She packed all of those memories tightly back into the mental box she had prepared for them and looked over at Alistair again. "I've lost enough to know what you're going through."

He was disturbed at the sudden emptiness in her face, the darkness in her green eyes, but decided not to pry further. "Yes, I'm sure you have." He smiled a little at her. "Thank you. Really, I mean it. It was good to talk about it, at least a little."

"I'm happy I could help. After all, as a Grey Warden you are my brother." The phrase struck a nerve, and the pain she thought she had tampered suddenly ripped through her chest.

Alistair watched in growing concern as her eyes suddenly started to well with tears. "Myranda?"

The blonde young woman turned away, pressing her fingers into the corners of her eyes. "Oh... I'm fine. The smoke must have blown into my eyes."

Alistair said nothing to this, though the breeze was blowing in from behind them, carrying the smoke away with it.

Myranda stared at the ground, hugging her knees to her chest as she tried to will the ache in her heart to go away. Then, to her horror, the dark truth she had kept locked away from him tumbled from her lips. "My... my entire family was murdered just recently."

A shock of horror shot down Alistair's spine. "Oh, of... of course. How stupid of me to forget." Damn it, he had _known_ that. Duncan had made it intensely clear in his letter what had happened at Castle Cousland and had warned them not to mention it. "Here I am going on and on about Duncan and you..." He shook his head. "I'm so sorry."

"It's all right," Myranda said. "I didn't realize you knew, and even so, I couldn't expect you to remember with things having been as they are." She ran the back of her hand across her eyes before continuing. "It was the day Duncan arrived. He'd come to see one of our knights to see if he'd be a good candidate for the Grey Wardens. Or so he said then. Only later did I find out he'd always wanted me as a recruit. Father had forbidden it, but agreed when... when he was..."

Alistair watched as she pursed her lips and squeezed her eyes shut. After a few moments she set her jaw and opened her eyes again. She looked so... cold.

"Duncan managed to save my life twice: he helped me escape from the castle and he sent me to the beacon rather than let me be in the battle. And now that I realize that Howe must be part of Loghain's treasonous plans, I have as much of a need to avenge Duncan as I do my family." She narrowed her eyes, her hate flowing hotly through her veins. "Arl Howe murdered my parents, my brother's wife, and my young nephew, and Loghain killed my brother and Duncan. And they will both pay _dearly_ for what they have taken from me."

The gentle touch of a hand on her arm broke her from this vengeful line of thought. In all honesty, she had almost completely forgotten about Alistair. She looked over at him and the sight of his face, the look of unrestrained compassion he gave her, the grief he so obviously felt, tore the breath from her lungs. "I... I'm sorry," she said, turning her face away.

"There's no need to apologize, Myranda." So was this the reason for the darkness behind her smile, the cool sarcasm that hid what he could sense to be a truly kind spirit? Was this why she'd always been slightly distant and aloof?

And then a miracle happened: Myranda leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder.

He was shocked at this move, and looked down only to find her emerald eyes were closed and silent tears streamed down her cheeks. His heart broke. How had she remained so strong in the face of such tragedy?

He moved to wrap his arm around her quivering shoulders, holding her gently against his chest as she wept. She didn't resist... in fact, she moved closer, wrapping her arms tightly around him. The poor girl had been through so much, it almost wasn't fair that she was now a Grey Warden as well. He wished he had known her before, but was infinitely glad he was able to comfort her now, at least. He rested his cheek on top of her head, sitting and grieving with her for the loss of Duncan and her parents.

After several long moments, her shoulders ceased to tremble and she took a deep, shuddering breath. He tilted his head to look at her. "Better?"

She sniffed and nodded a little, keeping her eyes on the ground. "Thank you," she whispered as she sat up. "I'm sorry."

"There's no need to apologize... I'm happy I could help," he said, repeating her earlier sentiment. "You are my Sister Grey Warden, and I'll always be here for you."

Myranda lifted her eyes to look at him, staring into his eyes and truly seeing for the first time the depths of his compassion. And something happened to her in that moment: something that hadn't happened in a long time and something that, now, she wasn't sure how to deal with. She had felt something similar years ago when Rory had looked at her, but the tingle that look had given her was nothing compared to the lightning bolt that shot down her spine now. Heat and cold coursed through her blood, making her dizzy. The pounding of her heart was incredibly loud in her ears.

Of course she'd thought Alistair attractive when she'd met him. Most girls did, she was sure. And she knew at one point in her life she would have enjoyed flirting with him. But that time was gone now. She'd never allow anyone, no matter how good-looking or witty or charming he may be, to get close to her. She'd seen how easily foes could masquerade as friends, embracing only to see the best place to put a knife in the back. So she'd encased her heart in ice and locked away her ability to trust and love.

Or so she thought.

But sitting here, looking into his incredibly honest face and seeing nothing but pure compassion staring back at her, she could almost feel the ice melting. She remembered suddenly the look on his face when she'd walked out of the hut in Flemeth's camp: his genuine relief at the fact that she was alive. She tried to tell herself it was only because she was a Grey Warden and didn't mean anything beyond that, but it was without conviction. He had been sincerely happy she was alive. The cold hand that had gripped her heart for so long was beginning to loosen its hold. And it was scaring her.

She blinked hard and looked away, clearing her throat in the sudden, awkward silence. "Well," she said, standing, "it's late, so we should probably both get some sleep."

"I suppose."

Myranda paused. "Are you all right now?" she asked.

Alistair smiled up at her. "I am. Thank you." His smile faded to concern. "Are you?"

"Yes. Yes, I'm fine." She managed a small smile. "Thank you, Alistair."

"My pleasure."

"Well... good night."

"Good night."

She started to walk away and paused before turning back to him. "Maybe I'll go to Highever with you, when you go. If... you wouldn't mind having me."

Alistair smiled again. "I'd like that. So would he, I think."

Myranda returned the smile and nodded. "Good night."


	9. More Crazy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Myranda and the gang stir up some trouble in Lothering and gain a couple new traveling companions.

**Chapter 9: More Crazy**

 

Myranda stood on the bank of the river, arms folded across her chest, staring at the village on the other side that shone like a mud-encrusted pebble in the early morning light. Morrigan stood on her left regarding the opposite bank with equal stoicism as Baby sat in front of them, panting contentedly.

"Well there it is," Alistair said, walking up to stand on Myranda's other side. "Lothering. Pretty as a painting."

"Ah," Morrigan said with callous coldness. "So you have finally decided to rejoin us, have you? Falling on your blade in grief seemed like too much trouble, I take it?"

"Is my being upset so hard to understand?" Alistair asked incredulously. "Have you never lost someone important to you? Just what would you do if your mother died?"

"Before or after I stopped laughing?" Morrigan asked with a smirk.

"Right," Alistair muttered. "Very creepy. Forget I asked."

Myranda looked over at him. "You have been very quiet, Alistair," she noted gently.

"Yes, I know," he said softly. "I was just... thinking."

"No wonder it took so long, then," Morrigan said.

"Oh, I get it," Alistair said viciously. "This is the part where we're shocked to discover how you've never had a friend your entire life."

"I can be friendly when I desire to," Morrigan replied haughtily. "Alas, desiring to be more intelligent does not make it so."

Myranda sighed, closing her eyes and trying to keep her patience.

"Anyway," Alistair said, deciding to move on. "I thought we should talk about where we intend to go first."

"You have some thoughts on that point, Alistair?"

Morrigan snorted. " _This_ should be good."

Alistair glared at her before turning back to Myranda. "I think what Flemeth suggested is the best idea. These treaties... have you looked at them?"

She nodded. "Yes, I have. We have treaties with the Dalish elves, the dwarves of Orzammar, and the Circle of Magi. They all seem to require that they give the Grey Wardens aid—military aid—during Blights."

"I also still think that Arl Eamon is our best bet for help. We might even want to go to him first."

"Is there a way to contact the Grey Wardens?"

He made a face. "Short of leaving Ferelden to seek them out, the only place to send word to would be Weisshaupt Fortress, and that's thousands of miles away."

"Then we need to find these people."

"I can give you directions, if you like."

Grabbing a stick, Myranda knelt and quickly drew a crude map of Ferelden in the dirt. "Right now, we're here," she said, marking Lothering with an 'X.' "Arl Eamon, I assume, will be at Redcliffe, here," she said, pointing to a place near the lower left corner of her map.

Alistair nodded, kneeling next to her. "And if he isn't there, someone will be able to tell us where he is."

"And the Circle... they'll be in their tower." She pointed near the top of the long oval that represented Lake Calenhad.

"Right. We'll be looking for the first enchanter... whoever that is."

"And the dwarves..."

"We would need to speak to their king in Orzammar. That means heading northwest into the Frostback Mountains," he added, pointing toward the ragged left edge, "which won't be easy."

"Hm. Where will we find the Dalish elves?"

"If we head eastward towards the Brecilian Forest, we should hear word of one of the clans that wanders that area. Hopefully they will still be there."

Myranda narrowed her green eyes. "And... Loghain...?"

"If he isn't out in the field with his army, he's probably going to be at the palace in Denerim."

"Of course. Consolidating his power."

"We can go to Denerim," Alistair went on, "but somehow I suspect that they're not going to let us just walk around. Only a suspicion, of course."

Myranda sighed. "Fine."

"Then you have a plan?"

The blonde woman sat back on her heels, considering her crude map. "What do you think we should do, Morrigan?"

"Go after your enemy directly," Morrigan said. "Find this man, Loghain, and kill him. The rest of this business with the treaties can then be done in safety."

"Yes, he certainly wouldn't see that coming!" Alistair said sarcastically. "And it's not like he has the advantage of an army and experience and—"

"I was asked for my opinion and I gave it," Morrigan retorted. "If your wish is to come up with reasons why something can _not_ be done, we will stand here until the darkspawn are upon us."

"Enough," Myranda said, standing abruptly and scuffing dirt over her map. "Before we do anything, we need to get supplies, so we had better be going."

"Fair enough," Alistair said. "Let's head into the village whenever you're ready."

"Let's go, then."

She led the way across the wide bridge, Baby trotting next to her, while Morrigan and Alistair flanked her on either side, keeping as much distance between themselves as possible. Halfway across, the way was blocked by a few depressing-looking wagons and a couple of huge piles of various packs and bundles. A group of about six unscrupulous-looking men lounged around the packs, picking through them and muttering to themselves. Myranda's eyes narrowed as Baby's fur started to stand up. Even without the dog's warning, the dead knight pushed to one side of the bridge would have alerted her that these bandits would cause them trouble.

"Wake up, gentlemen!" one, who was apparently the leader of the crew, called as the four approached. "More travelers to attend to." He ran his eyes up and down Myranda, a grin splitting his face. "I'd guess the pretty one is the leader."

Myranda pursed her lips. Why was it that every time...?

"Err..." one of the slower specimens began, "they don't look much like them others, you know? Uh... maybe we should just let these ones pass...."

Perhaps he wasn't as slow as he appeared.

"Nonsense!" the leader said with a dismissive wave. "Greetings, travelers!"

"Highwaymen," Alistair muttered. "Preying on those fleeing the darkspawn, I suppose."

"They are fools to get in our way," Morrigan said. "I say teach them a lesson."

"That sounds like fun," Myranda agreed. "I was wondering if I'd get my morning exercise today."

"Now is that any way to greet someone?" the bandit leader asked before clicking his tongue disapprovingly. "A simple ten silvers and you're free to move on."

"Or you could simply get out of our way," Myranda said. "We're not refugees."

"What did I tell you?" the slow one said. "No wagons... and she looks armed," he added, eyeing Myranda warily.

"The toll applies to everyone, Hanric," the leader said patiently. "That's why it's a toll and not, say, a refugee tax."

"Oh, right," Hanric said. "Even if you're no refugee, you still gotta pay!"

Myranda looked back at her companions. "At the forefront of Fereldan intelligence, these ones, aren't they?" she asked sarcastically. She looked back at the bandits then. "Forget it. I'm not paying."

The bandit leader shook his head in mock dismay. "Well I can't say I'm pleased to hear that. We have rules, you know."

"Right," Hanric piped up. "We get to ransack your corpse, then. Those are the rules."

Myranda snorted in laughter. "You can certainly _try_."

Baby barked in agreement.

"Well, this is going nowhere." The leader drew his sword then. "Let's finish this, gents! And try not to hurt the pretty one too much."

"Like I said," Myranda said, drawing her daggers, "at the forefront of Fereldan intelligence. I say we follow Morrigan's advice and teach them a lesson."

It seemed the battle was over before it even began, with all but the bandit leader laying dead and dying and the three travelers sustaining only minor injuries.

"All right!" the leader cried. "We surrender! We-we-we're just trying to get by, before the darkspawn get us all!"

"Get by?" Myranda repeated incredulously. "You're a criminal!"

"Yes, I'm a criminal; I admit it." The bandit leader threw himself at her feet, wrapping his arms around one of her ankles. "I apologize. Have mercy, please!"

"Let go of me!" Myranda said, kicking the man away. "I want some questions answered."

"What could I tell you? We aren't even from these parts!"

Myranda jerked him up by his hair, placing the tip of one dagger at the man's throat. "Stop your sniveling or I will kill you here and now!"

The bandit leader gulped, but said nothing.

"What's going on in Lothering?"

"It's packed full," the bandit said. "The bann took his men north with Teyrn Loghain, so there's no one looking out for it except a few templars at the chantry." He gulped. "I was just... trying to feed my family, you know?"

Myranda ignored this obvious lie. "Have you heard about any survivors from the battle?"

"Couple, maybe. A group of wounded ash warriors came by earlier... got right out of their way. But there aren't soldiers here anymore, so we... help ourselves. We try not to hurt anyone too much...."

"Oh, don't worry," the blonde cooed softly. "You won't be hurting anyone anymore." She thrust her dagger quickly into the man's throat, cutting off his scream before it could be uttered. She wiped off her dagger on the bandit's shirt before it became completely soaked and started going through the man's pockets.

"What are you doing?" Alistair asked.

"Looting the corpses," Myranda said simply. "We're supposed to get supplies while we're here, you know."

"How does this make us any better than bandits ourselves?"

Myranda cut off the bandit leader's money pouch and shook it at Alistair. "We don't have the coin for everything we'll need... unless you're suggesting we steal it."

"Oh. Good point."

"Thank you. Now give me a hand, would you? Just the bandits... leave the rest."

They went through the bandits, picking what they could from them before Myranda went over to the dead knight and started searching his body as well. She picked up what she thought was a gold coin wrapped in a piece of paper, but turned out to be a golden locket, inscribed with the heraldry of the arling of Redcliffe. On the back was the name "Henric." The paper, too, seemed to belong to the dead knight. Myranda frowned and pocketed both. When they went to Redcliffe she could inform Eamon of the fate of one of his knights and give him the note. But if they were short of coin before then, maybe the locket would be worth something.

When they had searched through everything, they continued on their way. They didn't get very far when they ran into more trouble: just inside the gate, a merchant—apparently the only one left in the village—was deep in argument with a petite chantry sister.

"Back off!" the merchant yelled. "I have the right to charge what I wish!"

"You profit from their misfortune!" the sister said. "I should have the templars give away everything in your carts!"

"You wouldn't dare! Any of you step too close to my goods, and I'll—"

"You know," Alistair interrupted loudly, "it's so nice to see everyone working together in a crisis. Warms the heart."

"I quite agree," Myranda said, her own voice dripping with vicious sarcasm. "It brings a tear to the eye."

The merchant turned to them. "You there!" he called. "You look able! Would you care to make a tiny profit helping a beleaguered businessman?"

"Aww," Myranda cooed with saccharine sweetness, "is your profiteering ruffling some feathers?"

He pursed his lips in annoyance. "You could say that," he muttered, "yes."

The blonde shook her head and clicked her tongue disapprovingly.

"The nerve of these people!" Alistair said.

"It's shameful, that's what it is," Myranda agreed.

The sister looked put out by their display. "He is charging outlandish prices for things people desperately need!" she cried. "Their blood is filling his pockets!"

"'Tis only survival of the fittest," Morrigan said. "All of these cretins would do the same in his shoes, given the chance."

"Yes," Alistair agreed derisively, "because humans haven't risen above animals at all."

"I have limited supplies," the merchant cut in. "The people decide what those supplies are worth to them."

"You bought most of your wares from these very people last week!" the priestess exclaimed. "Now they flee for their lives, and you want to talk _business_?"

The merchant sighed, loudly and heavily, before turning back to Myranda. "Look, stranger, I've a hundred silvers if you'll drive this rabble off, starting with that priest. I'm an honest merchant, nothing more."

"Because bribery is honest," Myranda muttered.

"Don't you think you're being unscrupulous?" Alistair asked, dropping his sarcastic act.

The merchant scoffed at this. "Would it help these folks if they could buy no goods at all?"

"They spend their very last coin because they are desperate," the sister said. "And this man preys upon them as surely as the bandits outside the city!"

"I wouldn't worry about the bandits anymore if I were you," Myranda said.

"Bah! I'm not arguing anymore! Drive off this woman and get yer hundred silvers," the merchant ordered. "Otherwise I'm taking my wagon and leaving!"

Green eyes turned to him. "I think you can compromise and still make a profit, no?" she said, sounding as reasonable as her strained patience would allow.

"Perhaps," the merchant said thoughtfully. "As long as that woman agrees I'm allowed to charge _something_."

The sister sighed softly. "Do what you must," she said, sounding slightly defeated. "So long as the prices do not beggar the needy."

"Fine, fine. Done." The merchant eyed Myranda critically. "And since _you_ don't look too needy, normal prices for you."

She shrugged. "Fine."

The priestess turned to Myranda then. "Thank you for your generous assistance," she said. "May the Maker watch over your path."

"So we have come to solve every squabble in the village, personally?" Morrigan asked scornfully as the priest walked away. "My, but the darkspawn will be impressed."

"We need supplies," Myranda said, turning to her, "and he's apparently the only merchant left."

Morrigan sighed impatiently, but made no other reply.

"In any case, I'll do the shopping. You two see what's happening here." She looked at Alistair then. "Try to find out what's happened since Ostagar."

He nodded. "Right. Oh... here." He handed her a heavy purse. "That should help with the supplies."

"Thank you. Just meet me here if you find anything."

Two hours later, Myranda was haggling for the last of their supplies. Alistair had returned with little news except that a doomsayer had set up camp outside the chantry and was preaching eternal darkness and that at least three families had gone to reclaim belongings taken from them by the bandits killed that morning. Baby had brought back a stick and was playing fetch with Alistair when Morrigan returned.

"I have discovered a penitent man left to be torn to pieces by darkspawn," she said, "locked in a cage at the far end of the village. 'Tis a _fine_ example of the Chantry's mercy, is it not?"

"They've locked a man in a cage?" Myranda repeated looking at her.

"I'd say that warrants more investigation," Alistair said.

"I agree." She paid the merchant for the last few items before picking up one of the two packs and following Morrigan across the tiny bridge. They were outside the tavern when a loud voice drew their attention.

"Well! Look what we have here, men: a Grey Warden."

Myranda stopped and let her pack slide from her shoulder, sensing the fight stirring in the air. The lieutenant was accompanied by about ten other men, all seasoned soldiers, all bearing the crest of the Teyrnir of Gwaren.

"I think we've just been blessed."

"Loghain's men," she murmured.

"This can't be good," Alistair agreed.

"Didn't we spend all morning asking about a woman by this very description?" one of the other soldiers asked. "And everyone said they hadn't seen her?"

"It seems we were lied to," the commander noted.

"Gentlemen, surely there is no need for trouble."

Myranda turned at the new, Orlesian-accented voice to see a young redheaded sister walking over to them.

"These are no doubt simply more poor souls seeking refuge."

"They're more than that," the lieutenant said. "Now stay out of our way, Sister. You protect these traitors, you'll get the same as them."

"And what, precisely, makes you think we're traitors?" Myranda asked.

"Teyrn Loghain claims the Grey Wardens betrayed the king," the sister told her, "or haven't you heard?"

Myranda's green eyes snapped with anger. " _What_?"

"Enough talk," the commander said, drawing his sword. "Take the Warden into custody. Kill the sister and anyone else that gets in your way." He smiled then, a smile that made Myranda want to vomit. "Take care not to let _too_ much harm come to her, boys."

The soldiers chuckled lecherously. "Right!" one said. "Let's make this quick!"

It was, in fact, quick, though the outcome was the opposite from what the soldiers were expecting.

"All right," the lieutenant cried as Myranda loomed over him, "you've won! We surrender!"

"Good," the sister said, replacing the pair of knives she had used to assist the Grey Wardens back into their sheaths. "They've learned their lesson and we can all stop fighting, now."

Myranda looked over at Alistair. "Though the fact remains that everyone thinks _we_ betrayed King Cailan and not Loghain."

"I was there!" the lieutenant retorted. "The teyrn pulled us out of a trap!"

"The teyrn left the king to die!" Myranda said, turning back to him.

"The Wardens led the king to his death!" the commander said. "The teyrn could do nothing!"

"You really are blind," Myranda said, lifting her dagger to finish the wretched man off.

The man threw his arms up over his head. "Please! Wait!"

"They have surrendered!" the redheaded sister cried, catching Myranda's arm. "They were no match for you! Let them be!"

Myranda glared at the other woman, her fury radiating from her like heat waves.

"Myranda...."

It was Alistair, very, very tentatively. Myranda sighed in frustration. "Fine," she snarled, shaking off the sister's hands before violently sheathing her dagger again. Then, turning to the lieutenant, she said, "Take a message to Loghain."

"W-what do you want me to tell him?"

"He'll pay for what he's done. We're coming for him."

"I'll tell him. Right away. Now. Thank you!"

Myranda watched the commander rush away before turning cold eyes to the sister.

"I apologize for interfering," the redhead said, seemingly unperturbed by the blonde's glare, "but I couldn't just sit by and not help."

"And just who are _you_?"

"Let me introduce myself. I am Leliana, one of the lay sisters of the chantry here in Lothering. Or I was."

"And just what does _that_ mean?"

"I joined the Chantry to live a life of religious contemplation," Leliana said, "but I am no priest, not even an initiate."

"You can call me Myranda, if you must."

"Those men said you're a Grey Warden. You will be battling the darkspawn, yes? That is what Grey Wardens do?"

"That's the rumor."

"I know after what happened, you'll need all the help you can get. That's why I'm coming along."

Myranda lifted one eyebrow at this statement. "Why so eager to come with us?"

"The Maker told me to," Leliana said simply.

Myranda looked over at Alistair, who looked back at her with the same expression of shocked skepticism that she herself felt. Obviously this woman was slightly deranged. "Can you... elaborate?" she asked carefully.

The redhead's resolve seemed to wither slightly at this severe wariness. "I-I know that sounds... absolutely insane," she said, "but it's true! I had a dream... a vision!"

"More crazy?" Alistair muttered. "I thought we were all full up."

"So did I," Myranda replied.

Leliana waved her arm in a great sweeping gesture to indicate the village. "Look at the people here," she said. "They are lost in their despair, and this darkness—this chaos—will spread. The Maker doesn't want this. What you do, what you are _meant_ to do, is the Maker's work. Let me help!"

"I need more than prayers, I'm afraid."

"I can fight!" Leliana said. "I can do more than fight. As I said, I was not always a lay sister. I put aside that life when I came here, but now... if it is the Maker's will, I will take it up again. Gladly." She looked at Myranda imploringly. "Please let me help you."

"You feel sorry for the people?" she asked. "Help them here."

"Then what?" the redhead countered. "What happens when the horde comes? It will follow anywhere we flee until all we know is destroyed!"

"I will stop the Blight, but I do not need you."

"But I..." Leliana noted the firm set of the blonde woman's jaw before sighing and hanging her head in defeat. "I will go," she said, "for now. It's not important that you believe what I say, only that you serve the Maker in the end." She looked back up at the Grey Warden then. "Think about it, please? That is all I ask."

"You think maybe we should have let her come along?" Alistair asked as the redhead walked away.

"And be saddled with a madwoman?" Myranda asked, shouldering her pack again. "Let's see about this caged man and get out of here. I have the feeling the longer we stay here, the more trouble we'll find ourselves in."

They reached the low wall around the village proper without further incident and Myranda was shocked when they turned the corner to find a large cage sitting on the far side, holding a dark-skinned giant who stared at them with disinterest as they approached.

"You aren't one of my captors," he noted flatly in a dark, deep voice. "I will not amuse you any more than I have the other humans. Leave me in peace."

"You're a prisoner?" Myranda asked.

"I'm in a cage, am I not?" he growled, annoyed by the simple question. "I've been placed here by the Chantry. I am Sten of the Beresaad—the vanguard—of the qunari peoples."

"Qunari?" Alistair repeated, sounding surprised.

"If you haven't heard of us, that is your own shortcoming," Sten said. "Though it matters little now. I will die soon enough."

"This is a proud and powerful creature," Morrigan said, "trapped as prey for the darkspawn. If you cannot see a use for him, I suggest releasing him for mercy's sake alone."

"Mercy?" Alistair repeated. "I wouldn't have expected _that_ from you."

Morrigan looked at him. "I would also suggest that Alistair take his place in the cage," she added.

"Yes, _that's_ what I would have expected."

"I suggest you leave me to my fate," Sten said, dismissing them.

"I find myself in need of skilled help," Myranda said.

"No doubt," the qunari said. "What help do you seek?"

"I am sworn to defend the land against the Blight."

Sten lifted one eyebrow fractionally. "The Blight? Are you a Grey Warden, then?"

"I am."

"Surprising."

Green eyes blinked. "How so?"

"My people have heard legends of the Grey Wardens' strength and skill." He eyed her skeptically. "Though I suppose not every legend is true."

"Regardless of your opinion of my skills, I am in need of help. Would the revered mother let you free?"

"Perhaps if you told her the Grey Wardens need my assistance. It seems as likely to bring my death as waiting here."

The blonde pursed her lips in annoyance at his lack of faith. Still, this qunari was skilled—she could tell that just by looking at him. He'd be useful in their war against the Blight. "I'll leave you for now."

"Farewell, then," the qunari said.

"Eaten alive by darkspawn?" Alistair said before shaking his head. "That's cruel. I wonder why the revered mother is so afraid of him."

Myranda turned to her two companions. "I'll go to the Chantry and talk to the revered mother about getting the key."

"I'll come with you," Alistair said.

The blonde nodded. "Baby," she said, turning to the dog, "you stay here and guard our things."

Baby barked in agreement.

"We shouldn't be long," Myranda told Morrigan. "I'll get the key and then we'll be off."

"Very well. I shall remain."

Myranda nodded and looked at Alistair before tilting her head and heading back into the village. "You know where the Chantry is here?"

"It's on the other side of town," he said. "Just past where your merchant is set up. Just listen for the yelling about how we're all going to die."

"Ah, yes. You did mention the doomsayer." She looked up at a loud wail that carried on the wind toward them. "That must be him."

"It is. Let's see if we can't sneak past him."

The two passed through the gates into the Chantry courtyard, skirting the crowd that had gathered around the doomsayer—who looked like he had just crawled out of a hole somewhere in the Wilds—and up the steps. Alistair paused at the sign near the doors to the building onto which had been pinned various notices.

"The Chantry is still running the Chanter's Board?" he asked in disbelief. "Now _that's_ dedication!"

"Lothering is an out-of-the-way village, after all," Myranda said, pushing open the door and stepping inside. When Alistair shut the door behind them, the noise from outside was instantly cut off, leaving them in relative silence. "We should hurry and get back to Morrigan," the blonde noted as she started up the central aisle.

"Are you sure about leaving her out there alone?"

"I didn't think her presence in the Chantry would be wise."

"That's true," Alistair admitted. "Helping others isn't in her nature... she'd probably rather threaten the revered mother. And if the templars found out she was an apostate, she'd kill us all."

"And that's no way to end a Blight." She looked around the small Chantry building. "So any thoughts about where to head first? The Brecilian Forest is closer."

"It may be, but I think the easier and safer bet would be to go to Redcliffe and see Arl Eamon."

A nearby knight, whose shield showed a castle tower on a red mountain, turned and looked at them then. "Who...?"

Alistair started in surprise, looking over at the knight. "Ser Donall...?" he asked uncertainly. "Is that you?"

"Alistair?" Ser Donall reached out and shook Alistair's hand, a relieved smile on his face. "By the Maker, how are you? I... I was certain you were dead!"

"Not yet, no thanks to Teyrn Loghain." He turned to Myranda then. "This is Ser Donall, one of the knights under Arl Eamon." He looked at Donall. "This is my fellow Grey Warden, Myranda."

"Myranda Cousland," she said, holding out her hand.

"My lady," Donall said, taking her hand and bowing slightly. He turned back to Alistair then. "We heard what happened at Ostagar. If Arl Eamon were well, he'd set Loghain straight soon enough."

Myranda's eyebrows quirked upward in surprise before she looked at Alistair.

"If he were well?" he asked. "What do you mean?"

"The arl is stricken with an illness that threatens his life," Ser Donall explained. "We have found no cure, either natural or magical."

"When did this happen?"

"Only a few weeks ago, but he has declined quickly. No one knows the nature of the illness, and even magic has done little to slow its progress. Our only hope now is a miracle. Every knight of Redcliffe has gone in search of the Urn of Sacred Ashes." The knight shook his head slowly. "Andraste's ashes are said to cure any illness. But I fear we are chasing a fable. With each day, my hope dims."

"We were hoping to see Arl Eamon, actually," Myranda said.

Donall looked at her. "Why is that, if I may ask?"

"We need his help against Teyrn Loghain," Alistair said.

"I see. The arl is a popular man, it's true. Teyrn Loghain, however, is a hero throughout Ferelden." The knight frowned. "Whatever the teyrn has done or not done, the arl remains ill, or worse. That is my primary concern."

A horrible thought occurred to Myranda then. "Do you think Loghain is involved with the arl's illness?"

"The arl fell ill before the king died," Donall said. Suddenly a concerned look crossed his face. "But what if Loghain planned that, too? Ah, such thoughts do not sit well with me."

Alistair looked at Myranda. "We should see what's happening in Redcliffe ourselves," he said. "I believe that now more than ever."

"If nothing else," Donall added, "I am certain you would be welcomed at Castle Redcliffe. The arlessa is there, and she could tell you more than I could."

Myranda saw the slight wince that crossed Alistair's face and turned back to the other knight. "So your quest for the ashes brought you here?" she asked.

"I expected to take advantage of the chantry's library, in fact," he told her, "but my skills are better suited to battle than chasing down tales. Nothing I have found leads me to believe that this was anything more than a quest of desperation. I intend to return to Redcliffe soon and tell the arlessa exactly that, once Ser Henric arrives."

"Ser Henric?"

"My fellow knight and traveling companion," Ser Donall explained. "He is delayed, though."

Myranda frowned. "Your friend Ser Henric is dead," she said gently, reaching into her pouch for the items she had taken off the dead knight before they entered the town. "I have something of his."

"What?!" Donall cried. "And you have his locket? And a note?"

"I'm sorry," she said as she handed over the objects.

"Maker's mercy," the knight breathed with a heavy sigh. He read quickly through the note before looking back at her. "Thank you for giving me these. I would never have known otherwise."

"We dealt with the bandits that killed him," she said, "so you may consider his death avenged."

"Thank you. I wonder how many of us have met similar fates on this mad quest." He shook his head sadly before tucking the parchment and the locket away. "With Henric gone, I need to return to Redcliffe. Perhaps later I will seek out the scholar his note mentions. But I must go." He took Myranda's hand and bowed deeply over it. "Thank you again, my lady. You have been most helpful."

"Good luck to you, Ser Donall," Alistair said.

"And to both of you."

The two Grey Wardens watched the knight walk back toward the exit for a few moments before Myranda turned. "Come on," she said. "We still need to speak to the revered mother."

They spoke briefly with the templar outside the priestess's office door before he knocked once on the door and opened it for them, granting them access to the inner sanctum. The revered mother looked up from the pile of paperwork on her desk as they entered, gracing them with a small, disarming smile. She was an older woman in her late sixties, with iron-grey hair that was pulled back from her face in a severe knot and dark brown eyes that attempted to peer into their souls as soon as they walked in the door. A wily one, who had gained her rank through skill and maneuvering rather than devotion to the Maker.

"Will you be making a donation to the chantry, my friend?" she asked politely. "You look like you have salvaged more of value than most who make it here."

"What tithe is acceptable?" Alistair asked.

"Might I suggest thirty silver?"

"Surely we can part with thirty silver?" he said, looking at Myranda.

Myranda's eyes narrowed fractionally before she reached into her money pouch. "I can offer five sovereigns," she said, holding the coins in her upturned palm. She watched with inward disgust as the older woman's eyes gleamed brighter than the gold.

"These poor souls will weep at your generosity," she said. "Thank you!"

To her credit, she didn't try to take the coins from Myranda, and the younger woman waited a few moments longer before handing them over.

The revered mother took them and put them in a small box on her desk before turning back to them. "What can I do for you, then?" she asked.

"Do you know a Sister Leliana?"

"Leliana?" Alistair repeated, surprised.

"I want to make sure she isn't a raving madwoman," Myranda told him. She looked back at the priest. "Can you tell me about her?"

"I'm sorry. She left our order yesterday. She said something about a great destiny that would take her away." The old woman shook her head slowly. "She did not want to hear that we most often serve the Maker in small kindnesses, not grand gestures. With Andraste's guidance, she is already traveling north, out of the darkspawn's reach."

"Don't count on it," Alistair said softly.

"We ran into her not too long ago," Myranda explained. "She's still in the village. But I really wanted to ask about Sten, the qunari you imprisoned."

The revered mother frowned severely before standing and walking toward the back of the room. "It might have been kinder to execute him, but I leave his fate to the Maker." She turned back to them, apparently having regained her composure. "Why does he interest you?"

"What was his crime?"

A pained look crossed the older woman's face. "He butchered an entire farmhold. Only one of the youngest hid long enough to survive."

Myranda and Alistair exchanged a look.

"The child said his father had found the qunari gravely wounded and took him in. That kindness was repaid with murder."

"Did he give any reason?"

"None. The bann's men found the qunari just... standing amidst the carnage. He did not resist them."

Myranda lifted an eyebrow at this. "Are you quite certain he did it, then?"

"He confessed quite readily, but, as I said, would give no reason for the crime." The revered mother shook her head sadly. "Even the seasoned knights who apprehended him were disturbed by the carnage. However docile he appears, do not be fooled. That qunari is a danger."

"Maybe this isn't such a good idea," Alistair murmured.

The other Grey Warden ignored him. "Is there any way we can convince you to release him?"

"Then his next victims might count you and me as their murderers." She shook her head. "No. I will not bear that responsibility."

"I was thinking you might release him into my custody," Myranda said.

"Your custody?" the older woman repeated with incredulity. "And who might _you_ be?"

"I am a Grey Warden, in need of aid against the darkspawn."

A look of pure fear crossed the priest's face. "A Grey Warden? Oh dear." She rallied herself then, drawing herself up to her full height. "I will have to ask you to leave before you bring trouble on our heads."

"I will go," the blonde said, refusing to be intimidated, "when you let me take the qunari and fight the darkspawn."

"To defend against the Blight?" The revered mother seemed to think about this for a few moments. "Perhaps that is a form of atonement." She lifted her eyebrow at the younger woman then. "But are you certain you can control him?"

Myranda pursed her lips, tired of this game. She would not be browbeaten and gently bullied by this woman. She was playing these mind games because she was weak, and Myranda was not threatened. "If you prefer," she said, pushing back with all the force of her resolve, "I could invoke the Right of Conscription."

"I'm not sure that would help, considering your group's current... standing." The revered mother stared at Myranda for a few moments before she recognized that the younger woman was not about to stand down on this issue and sighed softly to herself. "But you have convinced me." She reached into a pocket of her robe and pulled out a small gold key. "Here, then," she said, holding out the key to Myranda as if she was holding something repulsive. "Take the key to the qunari's cage and take him away."

"Thank you, Mother," Alistair said with a slight bow as Myranda took the key.

"I pray this is the right path," the old woman muttered, "for all our sakes."

Myranda inclined her head in a slight show of gratitude. "If something happens, it will be on my head, not yours. You needn't trouble yourself with it anymore." Without another word, she turned and walked out of the room with Alistair close behind.

As they left, Alistair saw a disgusted look cross Myranda's face. "What's the matter?"

"Politics," she said flatly, spitting the word like something vile. "Let's go."

They made their way quickly back to Sten's cage, where the qunari eyed them with slight disdain. "You wish something more of me?" he asked.

"What did you do to end up in here?" Myranda asked, wanting to verify the revered mother's story.

"I have been convicted of murder. Have the villagers not spoken of this?" He sounded like he didn't believe it while remaining aloof and disinterested.

"Who did you murder?"

"The people of a farmhold. Eight humans, in addition to the children."

Myranda lifted an eyebrow. "And are you guilty?"

"Are you asking if I feel guilt, or if I am responsible for the deed?"

She shrugged. "Either. Both."

Sten sighed. "However I feel, whatever I've done, my life is forfeit now."

"Capturing you must have been difficult."

"There is no difficulty in capturing prey that surrenders," the qunari said.

"And how long have you been here?"

"Twenty days, now," he informed her. "I shouldn't last much longer. Another week at most."

Green eyes widened in shock. "That's a long time to live without food or water."

"Compared to your kind, maybe. If you have failed in your efforts to convince the Chantry to release me, I suggest you leave me to my fate."

Myranda reached into her pouch and pulled out the gold key the revered mother had given her. "I have the key." She didn't think it was possible to look stoic and surprised at the same time, but the qunari managed.

"I confess, I did not think the priestess would part with it."

"She was reluctant, but agreed to release you into my custody."

Sten bowed his head slightly. "So be it," he said. "Set me free, and I will follow you against the Blight."

Myranda worked the key into the lock and turned it a few times. The mechanism was tight from weather and lack of use, but the tumblers finally slid back, opening the lock. She pulled open the door and stepped aside.

Sten stepped out of the cage and took a deep breath. "And so it is done," he murmured. He turned to Myranda then. "I will follow you into battle," he said. "In doing so I shall find my atonement."

"Thank you," she said with a nod. "Let's see about getting you a weapon."

They returned to the merchant, whose glare quickly melted away under the frigid look of the giant standing behind Myranda. Upon learning what she needed, he thrust a fourth tent and a large two-handed sword of good make in her direction, even refusing payment. "You're on your own for armor, though," he said. "I've got nothing big enough for him."

"Fine," Myranda said. "Thank you." She turned to Alistair then. "I think that's everything."

He nodded. "Let's get a move on," he agreed.

"Right." She lead the way back toward the bridge that would take them out of town. Outside the wall, her emerald eyes narrowed as she took in the knot of desperate-looking refugees near the bridge to village gate. "Oh, look," she said, her voice dripping sarcastic sweetness. "A farewell party. Isn't that nice!"

"We done heard what was said," the spokesman for the group said. "You're Wardens."

"The gossip is going to ruin this town," Alistair said with mock sadness.

"Eavesdropping generally isn't considered polite, either," Myranda noted.

The refugees shifted. "I don't know if you killed King Cailan," the leader said, "and Maker forgive me, I don't care. But that bounty on your head could feed a lot of hungry bellies."

Myranda looked at them. "You intend to fight with pitchforks?" she asked, lifting an eyebrow. "Against _swords_?" It was almost laughable.

"Mocking us won't save you." He turned to the others. "Attack!"

Five minutes later the refugees were scattered on the ground knocked out and sustaining minor injuries.

"Well that wasn't any fun," Myranda said, sheathing her daggers.

A sudden desperate yell sounded from behind the blonde and she turned to see the last of the refugees running toward her, a long knife held high. Myranda was about to draw her dagger to parry the attack when he stopped short, pinned by an arrow that cleaved through his ankle and into his foot. He fell to reveal a redheaded sister, bow in hand and looking quite pleased with herself.

"Oh, hello again!" Leliana said to them, picking her way carefully over the bodies. "So will you let me help you? Will you let me come?"

"Not _you_ again."

"I'll be honest," the sister said. "When I heard about the darkspawn, I felt something urging me to leave my sheltered life in the cloister and do something. _Anything_. And then the vision...! It cannot be coincidence, that you are brought here so soon after I was called by the Maker."

"Her plea seems wholehearted," Alistair said. "And even though she seems a little... strange... she does have skill." He mused over this for a moment before apparently making up his mind. "I vote to let her come along."

"Alistair, she's one archdemon short of a Blight," Myranda whispered.

"Yes, but she seems more... 'Ooh, pretty colors!' than 'Muahaha! I am Princess Stabbity! Stab, kill, kill!'"

Baby barked then as if in agreement.

"Don't make me 'stab, kill, kill' _you_ ," Myranda said. She turned back to Leliana, who was looking at her with wide, expectant blue eyes, and sighed. "Very well," she said, "if you insist."

Leliana's face lit up. "Thank you! I won't let you down, I promise!"

"I trust you have something more practical and substantial to fight in than that Chantry robe?"

"Give me a few minutes and I'll find myself some armor. I'll be right back!" she called as she raced back toward the town.

"A suitable diversion," Morrigan said. "We can surely be well underway before she returns."

Myranda hoisted herself up to sit on the low wall. "It wouldn't do any good," she muttered. "She'd only follow us and continue to beg us to take her along. We lose an hour this way, but we save ourselves a headache."

When Leliana returned slightly less than an hour later, dressed much more practically in heavy leather armor and with a pack of her own, Myranda quickly introduced her to the rest of the party before they set off again toward the bridge that would take them to the Imperial Highway. As they reached the ramp to it, the blonde felt a tingle in the back of her mind and looked up sharply, noting out of the corner of her eye that Alistair was reaching for his sword.

"What is it?" Leliana asked.

"Darkspawn," Myranda said, drawing her daggers and racing up the ramp as the five creatures appeared running down the bridge. "Watch for their blood!" She noticed a dwarven merchant as she ran past and called back to Leliana, "Stay with the merchant!"

"Right away!" the redhead called back.

The battle was over quickly with two extra combatants to help. Myranda and Alistair stood in the middle of the carnage, frowning down at the corpses.

"Scouting party," Myranda said.

"Or a raid," Alistair said. "I don't think scouts would get that close to the village."

"Seems we weren't as far ahead of the army as we thought."

The idea did not sit well with either of them.

"We should get going. Quickly."

"Right." Myranda turned back to where she had dropped her pack near the ramp and was greeted with a smile by the merchant.

"Mighty timely arrival there, my friend," the dwarf said. "I'm much obliged."

Myranda nodded. "You're welcome."

"The name's Bodahn Feddic," he said with a bow, "merchant and entrepreneur. This here is my son, Sandal." He turned to the boy then. "Say hello, my boy."

"Hello," Sandal said obediently.

"How do you do?" the blonde said politely.

"Road's been mighty dangerous these days," Bodahn noted. "Mind if I ask what brings you out here? Perhaps we're going the same way."

Myranda smirked. "I doubt you want to travel with a Grey Warden," she noted.

The dwarf looked surprised. "Grey Wardens! Hm! My, that does rather explain a lot." He shook his head. "No offense, but I suspect there's more excitement on your path than my boy and I can handle."

"None taken."

"Allow me to bid you farewell and good fortune, though."

"Thank you. And good luck to you."

"Goodbye," Sandal said.

"Now then!" Bodahn said, turning to the boy. "Let's get this mess cleaned up, shall we?"

The group gathered up their belongings and said farewell to Bodahn and his son before trekking across the bridge. When they reached the Imperial Highway, Myranda turned her steps down the road, heading west into the setting sun.


	10. A Start

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Grey Warden party begins its trek and Myranda starts to loosen up.

**Chapter 10: A Start**

_"Humor is mankind's greatest blessing." ~Mark Twain_

 

The massive canyon held a river of lighted torches. There were thousands upon thousands of them. Then, suddenly, the horrific dragon appeared, standing on a bridge and roaring deafeningly. It reared onto its hind legs, swinging its head from side to side as it roared before crashing back down and bellowing a great stream of blue-green fire over the heads of the darkspawn milling below. The sight and the sound were dreadful and terrifying.

Myranda tossed and turned violently before she started suddenly awake, panting heavily as she looked up into the deep black sky. She winced as she sat up, bringing one hand up to cradle her aching head. Andraste's flaming sword, could she not get _one_ night of sleep where she wasn't plagued by nightmares? First her family, now this horrid dragon.

"Bad dreams, huh?"

Myranda looked up to see Alistair sitting near the fire at the center of their campsite, staring at her. Maker's breath, had he been watching her sleep? How embarrassing! "Must have been something I ate," she muttered, returning her gaze to the ground.

"Drank, more like. As in the tainted blood? Remember?" Her green eyes lifted to him and he looked at the fire before explaining. "You see, part of being a Grey Warden is being able to hear the darkspawn." He looked back at her then. "That's what your dream was: hearing them."

Myranda lowered her hand slowly back to her lap, staring at him as this newest shock was revealed.

"The archdemon, it... 'talks' to the horde, and we feel it just as they do. That's why we know this is _really_ a Blight."

"The archdemon..." she said softly, "is that the dragon?"

"I don't know if it's really a dragon, but it sure looks like one. But yes, that's the archdemon."

"Are these dreams going to happen a lot?" That could prove to be frightfully annoying.

"It takes a bit, but eventually you can block the dreams out. Some of the older Grey Wardens say they can understand the archdemon a bit, but I sure can't." He watched her lower her eyes again. "Anyhow, when I heard you thrashing around, I thought I should tell you: it was scary at first for me, too."

Myranda looked up sharply, startled by the admission. She stared at him for several moments, searching for any sign of deceit or mockery, and found none: there was only pure honesty in his face. The corners of her mouth lifted in a genuine smile—her first in nearly two months—and it felt strange on her lips. "Thank you, Alistair," she said softly. "I appreciate it."

"That's what I'm here for," he said with exaggerated cheerfulness. "To deliver unpleasant news and witty one-liners." He smiled at her. "Anyhow, try to get some more sleep. I'll wake you at dawn."

 

 

_[Kingsway 2 – Evening]_

"Why are we stopping?" Sten asked Myranda as she passed by on her way back to the fire in the middle of the camp.

"It's getting dark," Myranda said. "You don't expect us to march through the night do you?"

"There are darkspawn to be fought. Is this delay needful?"

"We all need to rest," she said with exaggerated patience. She shot the qunari a look. "Including you. You were in that cage for weeks."

"You are concerned?" Sten asked. Myranda couldn't decide whether he was surprised or annoyed by this. "No need. I am fit enough to fight."

She paused, considering him for a few moments. "Will you tell me about your people?" she asked.

"No."

Myranda blinked at this flat reply. "And why not?"

"People are not simple," Sten said. "They cannot be summarized for easy reference in the manner of: 'The elves are a lithe, pointy-eared people who excel at poverty.'"

She stared at him for a moment before deciding to concede the point. "You said you were in the army," she said, trying a different conversation thread.

"I am," he said simply.

"What made you decide to become a soldier?"

The qunari gave her a strange look then, as if she was suddenly growing another head. "Decide?" he repeated. "I am a Sten of the Beresaad. I did not choose to be who I am any more than you did."

"Have you ever fought in a war?"

"I have always fought in war, human."

"And what does that mean?" Myranda asked.

"My people have been at war since the moment we set foot in the northern islands."

This confused the blonde woman. "So the qunari don't come from the islands?"

"We do now."

"Where did you come from before?"

"Somewhere else."

Myranda closed her eyes, fighting back her impending headache. "Never mind," she muttered, giving up and continuing on her way toward the fire. "Just... get some rest."

She had just reached the circle of light from the small bonfire when a trilling laugh reached her ears. Her head snapped up and she looked in the direction of the sound only to see Alistair and Leliana engaged in a deep conversation. And, for a reason she couldn't begin to fathom, it caused an intense heat to course through her veins, flooding her brain with an undeniable resentment and anger.

She sat heavily by the fire, snatching up a long stick and poking at the burning logs, trying not to sulk. Well, _they_ were certainly getting along _splendidly_. They had been chatting and laughing to themselves since dinner... and for the past two days. She pursed her lips. He hadn't said a word to _her_ since she'd woken up two nights ago from her nightmare.

Not that she was jealous, of course. Of course not! Why _should_ she be jealous? It was important that they all try to get along if they were going to be traveling and fighting together. Granted, Morrigan and Alistair fought like cats and dogs... which was an apt comparison, as Morrigan rather reminded her of a sleek and aloof black cat while Alistair had the loyalty and resoluteness of a good hound, complete with deep and soulful puppy-dog eyes. She heard Alistair laughing and shot him and the redhead another sour look before looking back at the fire.

So what that he and Leliana were talking and laughing and just having a _terrific_ time in each other's company? Just because Leliana was bright and bubbly with a beautiful Orlesian accent and a trilling laugh that sounded like the tinkling of bells didn't necessarily mean that Alistair would be attracted to her. Why _would_ he be attracted to her? She was skinny... willowy and graceful and calm and cultured and beautiful in a way. And she could laugh... something she herself had lost.

But what difference did it make that she wouldn't— _couldn't_ laugh anymore? They were trying to stop a Blight... it was no time for frivolity! She scowled at the fire and poked it harder, the flame-weakened stick in her hands snapping in half from the force.

"Does the fire upset you that much?"

She looked up at Alistair before returning her gaze to the flames. "I don't think it was a good idea to let Leliana come with us after all," she said, hurling the other half of the stick into the bonfire.

"Why not?" he asked, sitting next to her. "She's a skilled fighter. And she can cook!"

"And she's pretty," Myranda grumbled.

He blinked, confused. "Do you think so?" He didn't think Myranda was the type to notice other women... not like that, anyway.

"Don't you?"

"I... guess so," he said before shrugging. "I don't know. I hadn't really noticed."

"You... you hadn't?" Myranda felt she had been struck dumb from pure astonishment. "Oh, I..." She looked down at her hands, which she folded in her lap. "Oh." She cleared her throat. "Well I... suppose we can let her tag along for a while longer."

"Good! I didn't think you'd want to go back to me doing most of the cooking. We'd starve for sure."

"It wasn't _that_ bad," she said. She looked over at him only to find him giving her a completely incredulous look. "All right, it was pretty bad," she admitted. "But I wasn't doing much better."

"You'll hit me if I say your cooking wasn't that bad, won't you?

"Only if it's a lie."

"Then I better not say anything." He looked up over her shoulder then, a puzzled look crossing his face. "Say, isn't that the dwarf we saved back in Lothering?"

Myranda turned to look for herself to see a familiar wagon parked just outside the perimeter of their camp. "It is!" she said. "What's he doing here, I wonder?"

"Should we investigate?" he asked, standing.

"It might be a good idea." She allowed him to pull her to her feet before leading the way over to the wagon.

The dwarf looked up as they approached and smiled. "Ah! It's good to see you, my timely rescuers! Bodahn Feddic at your service once again."

"Good evening," Myranda said. "What brings you here?"

"I saw your camp and thought to myself, 'What safer place to rest for the evening than in the camp of a Grey Warden?'"

Myranda smirked. The dwarf had a point.

"I'm perfectly willing to offer you a fine discount for the inconvenience of our presence," the merchant told her. "How does that sound? Good? Yes?"

"And what are you selling, exactly?" she asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Anything, everything. But all of the finest quality: no cheap trinkets here. And my boy Sandal happens to be a bit of a hand with enchantments."

"Really?"

"Oh yes. Sadly, it also makes us a target for bandits and the like. If there were spare hands to hire as guards, I would have done so long ago."

She looked at Alistair. "What do you think?"

"Our own personal merchant? Seems like a good deal to me!"

She nodded. "I agree." She looked back at Bodahn. "You're free to stay," she told him. "Just mind yourselves."

"Wonderful!" He looked over at his son. "Thank the kind lady, won't you, boy?"

"Thank you, kind lady," Sandal said.

Myranda felt the smile returning to her lips at the boy's obedience to his father.

"We won't be a bother to you and your companions, I assure you," Bodahn was saying. "If you should need enchantments, simply talk to my boy. Otherwise, come speak with me. The boy's a bit simple, but he is rather good with enchantments. One of those Tranquil fellows actually called him a..." his voice trailed off as he searched for the word. "What was it, now? A savant!" He shrugged. "I had no idea such a thing existed."

"Tranquil?" Myranda asked, turning to Alistair.

"Mages who are considered too weak to resist demonic possession are made Tranquil," he explained. "They're cut off from the Fade and their emotions are... taken away."

Her brow furrowed at how disturbed he looked and she turned back to the two dwarves. "What enchantments does he do?" she asked Bodahn.

"He can fold lyrium into almost any weapon or piece of armor," Bodahn said proudly.

"Well, that could be useful!"

"Naturally some of the more extravagant materials will take more lyrium than others. It's a process that some of the master smiths back in Orzammar will perform, but my boy here is just as adept at it," he said, puffing with pride. He turned to Sandal then. "Isn't that right, boy?"

"Enchantment!" Sandal said excitedly, jumping up and down and clapping his hands.

Bodahn chuckled. "And there you have it."

 

 

_[Kingsway 4 – Evening]_

"Leliana?"

The redhead looked up from the pot of fresh rabbit stew simmering on the fire. "Good evening, Myranda," she said politely. "Something I can help you with?"

"I'd like to talk to you about something."

Leliana spread her arms invitingly. "Well, here I am."

Myranda took a deep breath as she knelt nearby. "This... vision of yours..." she began. She didn't get any further, as the redhead lowered her head and sighed.

"I knew this would come up sooner or later," she murmured. She breathed another heavy sigh before looking up. "I don't know how to explain, but I had a dream."

"A dream."

"Yes. In it there was an impenetrable darkness... it was so dense, so real. And there was a noise, a terrible, ungodly noise...."

"A roaring?"

Leliana thought for a moment. "I don't know," she said finally. "It was horrible... filling the whole sky. I stood on a peak and watched as the darkness consumed everything... and when the storm swallowed the last of the sun's light, I..." her voice trailed off and she lowered her eyes. "I fell," she said softly, "and the darkness drew me in."

"You dreamed of the Blight," Myranda said. "At least, it sounds that way."

"I suppose I did. That was what the darkness was, no?"

"I would say so."

"When I woke, I went to the chantry's gardens, as I always do. But that day, the rosebush in the corner had flowered." She looked at the blonde then. "Everyone _knew_ that bush was dead. It was grey and twisted and gnarled—the ugliest thing you ever saw, but there it was—a single, beautiful rose. It was as though the Maker stretched out His hand to say: 'Even in the midst of this darkness, there is hope and beauty. Have faith.'"

Myranda couldn't help the skepticism she felt. "And... this made you want to help me?" she asked.

"In my dream, I fell, or... or maybe I jumped." She seemed to consider this dark possibility for a moment before lifting her blue eyes back to Myranda's green. "I'd do anything to stop the Blight," she said determinedly. "I know that we can do it. There are so many good things in the Maker's world. How can I sit by while the Blight devours... _everything_?"

The blonde woman sighed a little. "I suppose I couldn't sit by either," she admitted.

Leliana smiled at her. "That is why you are a Grey Warden."

She looked at the other woman for a few moments before allowing herself to smile a little. "I suppose so." She leaned closer to the simmering pot as the delicious smell wafted toward her, placing a hand over her rumbling stomach. "How much longer before supper?"

The redhead stirred the contents of the pot. "It's almost ready. Just a few more minutes, I think."

"Good. I'm starving... I feel like I haven't eaten in a week." She heard Baby barking and turned to see Alistair quickly pulling his hand away. "Oh, Maker..." she started as she rushed over.

"Why you little...!!"

"What?" Myranda asked, as she trotted up to them. "What?"

Alistair pointed at the dog. "Your furry friend here took offense at me getting near his food. He snapped at me! Look..."

"Let me see," she said, taking his hand and examining the bite. "Oh, don't be a baby. There's hardly any blood drawn," she said, releasing his hand again. "Still, he shouldn't have." She looked down at the mabari. "Bad dog!"

Baby hung his head in shame, whining apologetically.

"Sometimes I forget that he's a war dog," Alistair said. "That'll teach me."

"A lesson well learned. Next time you may come back missing a finger." She looked back at the mabari. "But you be nice to Alistair," she said, shaking a finger at the animal. "We all need to get along and cooperate now."

Alistair looked at her, somewhat surprised to hear the phrase again.

"And try not to steal my dog's food again," Myranda said to him.

"I didn't...!" His retort cut off when she smirked suddenly, and he saw a sparkle in her eyes that he'd never seen there before. Only then did he realize that she was teasing him. "Right," he said. "I'll try to restrain myself."

 

 

_[Kingsway 5 – Night]_

Myranda watched critically as Alistair tentatively held out his hand to the dog, who sniffed it and barked happily. A small smile crossed her lips, though her confusion grew as Alistair knelt and seemed to start a conversation with the animal, which barked conversationally from time to time. Her curiosity quickly got the better of her, and she stood and walked over to them.

"I once heard a really old legend," Alistair was saying, "about how the Hound Warriors, in the days of the old tribes, would feed their mabari the flesh of the vanquished."

Baby whined softly, tilting his head curiously.

"Well, that's what I heard anyway. It would sometimes be _human_ flesh."

The mabari took a few steps back before making gagging noises, heaving like he was about to be sick. Myranda felt the smile tugging at one corner of her mouth and crossed her arms over her chest.

"Oh, like you can tell the difference," Alistair accused. "For all you know, maybe you've already been fed something." He gave a unintentionally-comic version of a wicked smile. "Or _someone_."

Baby let out a scared whimper, tucking his stubby tail against his body as he looked up at Myranda.

She smiled a little and shook her head. "I'd never feed you another human being," she told the dog.

Alistair looked up at her then. "It's not cannibalism if _he's_ eating it, you know."

Baby let out a low, angry growl, laying his ears back.

Myranda, on the other hand, felt something rising in her throat... something she was powerless to stop. It turned out to be a giggle, which soon deepened to a full laugh.

Alistair and Baby both looked up at the young woman, surprised at her reaction. Their expressions were so uncannily similar that it only made her laugh harder. Every time she tried to stop, the thought of it would send her back into helpless laughter.

"Uh oh," Alistair said with a small laugh of his own. "I think she's lost it."

Baby barked happily, hopping around in a circle before barking again.

Myranda clutched at a sudden ache in her stomach from her mirth, taking several deep breaths. "Well, there's something I never thought I'd do again," she said around her soft panting.

"What's that?"

"Laugh." She smiled. It was the first pure smile Alistair had seen on her face and it made her positively radiant. "Thank you for it."

"That's why I'm here," he said lightly, standing and grinning at her. "Anything to see a pretty girl smile!"

Myranda felt herself starting to blush and looked away in embarrassment, another giggle—this one girlish and silly—rising up from nowhere. She cleared her throat in an attempt to gain control of herself. "May I ask you about something?" she asked, looking back up at him and inclining her head toward the fire.

"Of course."

"So you said Arl Eamon raised you?" she asked as they walked back toward the main part of the camp. He hadn't said so in so many words, but she wanted to see if her deduction was correct.

Alistair stopped. "Did I say that?" he asked nervously. "I meant that... _dogs_ raised me! Giant, slobbering dogs from the Anderfels! A whole pack of them, in fact!"

Myranda looked over at him, one eyebrow raised. He was hiding something, though she didn't know what, or _why_ for that matter. "That would explain the smell," she said teasingly.

"Well, it wasn't until I was eight that I discovered you didn't have to lick yourself clean," he said, starting with her back toward the fire. "Old habits die hard, you know."

"That would explain the breath as well, then."

"And my table manners, too," Alistair added with a grin. He paused thoughtfully then. "Though, come to think of it, they weren't all that different from the other templars."

Myranda felt another laugh rise in her throat and fought it back. She had less luck with the smile that crept across her lips.

"Or did I dream all of that?" he went on. "Funny the dreams you'll have when you sleep on the cold, hard ground, isn't it?" He looked over at her then. "Are... you having strange dreams?"

She looked at the fire and shrugged. "Not really. Only ones where we're making mad love in my tent." The words were out of her mouth before she realized she'd said them. Maker's blood, she hadn't meant to tell him about that... it had only happened once! She glanced at him to find him staring at her in surprise.

"I... oh," he stammered as a dark blush colored his cheeks. "I think I... completely lost my chain of thought..."

Myranda found herself giggling softly. She was starting to find his bashfulness quite adorable.

Alistair cleared his throat before firmly deciding not to pursue this awkward side-track and to return to her original question. What was it again? "Oh, there it is," he muttered as he remembered. "Let's see. How do I explain this?" he asked rhetorically before looking back at her. "I'm a bastard. And before you make any smart comments," he continued when the blonde woman opened her mouth to speak, "I mean the _fatherless_ kind."

Myranda closed her mouth and smirked at him.

"My mother was a serving girl in Redcliffe Castle who died when I was very young," he explained. "Arl Eamon wasn't my father, but he took me in anyhow and put a roof over my head. He was good to me, and he didn't have to be. I respect the man and I don't blame him anymore for sending me off to the Chantry once I was old enough."

"How long were you there? In the Chantry, I mean."

"Until about six months ago, but altogether around..." his voice trailed off as he thought about it. "About ten years."

"Why did he send you off to the Chantry?" she asked gently.

Alistair sighed. "Arl Eamon eventually married a young woman from Orlais, which caused all sorts of problems between him and the king because it was so soon after the war. But he loved her." He sighed again. "Anyhow, the new arlessa resented the rumors which pegged me as his bastard. They weren't true, but of course they existed. The arl didn't care, but _she_ did." He shrugged slightly. "So off I was packed to the nearest monastery at age ten. Just as well," he muttered. "The arlessa made sure the castle wasn't a home to me by that point. She despised me."

"What an awful thing to do to a child," Myranda said.

"Maybe. She felt threatened by my presence... I can see that now. I can't say I blame her. She wondered if the rumors were true herself, I bet." He paused thoughtfully. "I remember I had an amulet with Andraste's holy symbol on it. The only thing I had of my mother's. I was so furious at being sent away I tore it off and threw it at the wall and it shattered." He closed his eyes, shaking his head slowly. "Stupid, stupid thing to do." He opened his eyes to look back at the fire. "The arl came by the monastery a few times to see how I was, but I was stubborn. I hated it there and blamed him for everything... and eventually he just... stopped coming."

Myranda frowned, troubled by the sadness and regret in his voice. "You were young," she said sympathetically.

"And raised by dogs!" he added in an attempt at a joke. "Or I may as well have been, the way I acted. But maybe all young bastards act like that, I don't know."

Myranda managed a smile, albeit a weak one.

"All I know is that the arl is a good man and well-loved by the people. He also was King Cailan's uncle, so he has a personal motivation to see Loghain pay for what he did." He sighed. "Anyway... that's really all there is to the story."

"Thank you for telling me."

"I don't know if it will make a difference, but it might help to explain why Arlessa Isolde... reacts the way I think she will when we get there."

"It will keep me from instantly disliking her, anyway. But there's time yet to regain that." She smiled as Alistair laughed softly.

 

 

_[Kingsway 6 – near midnight]_

Alistair looked up as Myranda emerged from her tent, her hair slightly mussed from sleep and clutching her blanket around her shoulders so that it fell down her back like a cloak. She was wearing only her undershirt beneath the blanket, and, though it was long enough to sufficiently cover everything, it still gave him a generous view of her long, shapely legs. He noticed—he was a man, of course he noticed!—but as her friend he tried not to stare.

She looked up at him, lifting one hand to smooth her hair. "Are you standing watch?" she asked.

"As it were."

She hesitated, biting her lip with uncertainty. "Would you mind some company?"

"I never mind your company," he said with a slight smile.

She smiled back and walked around the fire to sit next to him, smoothing the shirt and blanket beneath her as she sat before wrapping the blanket over her lap. "I was having some trouble sleeping," she said, suddenly feeling the need to explain herself.

"Nightmares?"

"Yes," she admitted.

He nodded understandingly. The sounds of her thrashing around and anxious look on her face when she had stumbled out of her tent had told all. He reached over and picked up a stick that had been suspended over the fire by two stones, revealing five small chunks of meat that had been skewered onto it, before holding it toward her. "Hungry?"

"Starving." She started to take only one of the pieces, but had the whole stick pushed into her hands. "What about you?" she asked.

Alistair grinned. "I have eight more cooking."

Myranda found herself laughing a little, and though it still sounded strange in her ears, she was enjoying it. She blew on one of the pieces to cool the sizzling meat before taking a delicate bite. It was a bit charred from sitting in the fire, but was still tender and juicy in the middle. "This is good! What is it?" She looked over at him. "Or do I not want to know?"

"Afraid that I'm feeding you the flesh of the vanquished?" he teased.

"The thought had crossed my mind."

He laughed at that. "Nothing so sinister as that. It was a rabbit that Leliana caught in one of her traps."

"Ah. That's all right, then." She took another bite. "You did warn me about the charred rabbit."

"I told you."

Time passed pleasantly enough, the two chatting softly about inconsequential matters as they shared the makeshift meal. They fought playfully over the last skewer, a fight that Myranda won by poking Alistair in the side and, after quickly discovering and utilizing the fact that he was ticklish, snatching the last skewer from the fire. Gracious in her victories, however, she ended up sharing the four pieces of meat with him. This was followed by a small wedge of a fine cheddar cheese that Alistair had had squirreled away in his pack and claimed to have bought from Bodahn.

Myranda smiled as she popped a piece of the cheese into her mouth, savoring the sharp flavor before swallowing. "I feel like I'm at a party in Denerim," she said. She looked over at him with a grin. "I don't suppose you have a smooth Orlesian red somewhere as well?"

"Actually, I always preferred Fereldan blondes."

The other Grey Warden blushed at the comment and swatted him playfully on the arm. "That wasn't the kind of drink I was talking about," she said.

"I mean it! Orlesian wines make me sick... especially the red ones. And I've always thought Fereldan ales go better with cheese, anyway." He gave her a confused look. "What did you think I meant?"

Myranda's blush darkened and she subtly crossed her legs at the knee. "Er... never mind." Since when had her mind spent so much time in a sewer to immediately think he was talking about... _that_?

They sat in silence but for the gentle crackle of the fire, watching through the trees as the moon glistened on the surface of the small stream near the camp as it flowed toward the river that would take it to Lake Calenhad and, eventually, to the sea. The atmosphere between them slowly calmed and the sharp embarrassment Myranda had felt began to fade away.

"It's hard to believe, isn't it?" she asked softly after several minutes.

"What's that?"

"Everything." She shrugged. "That everything that's happened to us has happened. That it's up to the two of us to raise an army against a Blight that most people won't believe is real." A soft sigh escaped her. "That the whole world is on the edge of chaos and yet it feels so... peaceful, sitting here like this."

"It's a beautiful night," Alistair agreed, looking up at the moon.

Another easy silence settled around them, soothing and serene. She leaned against him in an entirely unexpected move—even to her—but he was warm and close and comforting... and comfortable, she noticed suddenly as she rested her head on his shoulder. She felt him hesitate for a moment before wrapping his arm lightly around her shoulders and smiled to herself. She felt so at peace... like nothing could go wrong. It was the same feeling she'd had before the tragic night her parents were killed, but shockingly that revelation did not set her on edge. She closed her eyes and sighed softly, drinking in the quiet of the campsite, the warmth and security of his presence, and the stillness of the night around them.

"So I take it by our generally south-westerly route that we're going to Redcliffe?"

She could feel the words as they resonated in his chest and fought the delightful shiver that skipped down her spine. "Mm hmm."

"Was there a specific reason? I'm just curious..."

Myranda opened her eyes and sat up to look up at him. "Would you rather we went somewhere else first?"

"No, no..." he said, quickly removing his arm from around her shoulders, "you're the leader, and Redcliffe's as good a choice as any... probably even the best choice. I was just wondering why you decided to go there first."

"Because you're from there, and I thought it best to start with someplace familiar." She closed her eyes as she leaned against him again. "And because Arl Eamon is important to you," she murmured.

"Oh." He never would have guessed the latter reason. He was worried about the arl, and he supposed he hadn't made a secret of that, but he never would have thought that she would go to Redcliffe just because of that. "I... thank you."

"Mmm."

Alistair was quiet for a few moments, fighting the gnawing pit in his stomach. They were going to Redcliffe. He'd be able to follow up on the rumors, then, and that was good. But that also meant... no. He didn't have to say anything about that. She didn't have to know. Her not knowing hadn't hurt anything thus far.

He sighed softly. But she had a right to know, not only as a Grey Warden, but as a friend. He should be honest with her... she deserved that much. "Look," he said. "There's something I think I need to tell you about before we get to Redcliffe. Do you mind?"

Several moments went by with no answer, and he looked over at her only to find that she'd fallen asleep. He sighed, partly in relief, but also with some disappointment as he looked back at the fire. She needed to know the truth, but obviously it would have to wait a while longer. He'd tell her before they reached Redcliffe; he'd have to. If he didn't tell her, she'd find out from the arl, and she'd be furious at him for not telling her himself. By his thinking, they were about a week from Redcliffe. Surely in those next seven days he could find the nerve to bring up the subject again.

He looked down into her sleeping face again and found himself smiling a little. But right now wasn't the time for those thoughts. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders again, pulling her close as he leaned his cheek on the top of her head. He was growing incredibly fond of her with her strength and bravery, her determination, her gentle smiles, her newly-discovered musical laugh, and her emerging playfulness. He knew she could become a true and dear friend to him. If only he could be sure... sure that she liked him, and would continue to like him for _who_ he was and not _what_ he was. Telling her the truth may ruin that forever—she was from nobility and he knew what they thought of him—and was he truly willing to take that chance? He closed his eyes. It would be something to ponder for the next week.

 

 

_[Kingsway 7 – Midday]_

"So how did you become Grey Warden?" Myranda asked.

"Same way you did. You drink some blood, you choke on it and pass out." He grinned at her. "You haven't forgotten already, have you?"

She giggled a little. "I mean before that... how they recruited you from the Chantry. What were you doing there, anyway?"

"Training, mostly. I trained for many years to become a templar, in fact. That's where I learned most of may skills."

"You just don't seem like the religious sort."

"You're telling me! I was banished to the kitchens to scour the pots more times than I can count. And that's a lot; I can count pretty high." He smiled as the other Warden giggled. "The grand cleric didn't want to let me go. Duncan was forced to conscript me, actually, and was she ever _furious_ when he did! I thought she was going to have us both arrested. I was lucky."

Myranda looked at him. "Why did the grand cleric want to keep you?"

"I wondered that myself," Alistair said. "It's not as if she _valued_ me highly. I think she just didn't want to give anything to the Grey Wardens, is all."

The blonde woman smiled a little. She had her own theory about why the woman would want him around, but she kept it to herself.

"The Chantry didn't lose much," he went on. "And I think I can do more fighting the Blight anyhow rather than sitting in a temple somewhere. I'll always be thankful to Duncan for recruiting me. If it hadn't been for him, you know, I would never... I wouldn't have..."

Myranda looked over at him. "I'm sorry," she murmured.

"No," he said, shaking his head, "it's... I'm sorry. I shouldn't be...." He seemed to gather his composure around him like a cloak as he shook his head again, more determinedly. "It's fine," he said with a flatness that was almost painful. "He died a hero. They all did."

"Alistair..."

"Come on," he said, his pace quickening, "let's go. I think I'm done talking."

Myranda kicked herself, viciously berating her thoughtlessness. He needed more time—she _knew_ he needed more time! What had possessed her to ask about his joining the Wardens? She had known it would bring up talk of Duncan, and the wound was still very fresh. Damnation!

 

 

_[Kingsway 7 – Evening]_

The roar of a nearby waterfall as they made camp was like a beckoning hand, and Myranda's skin and hair cried out for the cleansing feel of the water. She scouted out the fall and was pleased to find it emptied into a large pool deep enough to bathe in. The mere idea of washing away the dirt, sweat, and blood that had been caked onto her skin and into her hair over the past nine and a half weeks was thrilling.

A technical difficulty occurred to her after dinner as she was searching her packs for extra blankets to use as drying cloths. She didn't have any soaps. She hadn't thought to buy any in Lothering... it had completely slipped her mind. She sighed, furious with herself for not thinking of such a simple thing. She would just have to check Bodahn's goods to see if he had any. Unless...

"Leliana?"

The redhead looked up as the Grey Warden walked over to her. "Something I can help you with?" she asked, eyeing the three blankets the other woman had tucked under her arm.

"I have a somewhat... strange question."

A sudden wariness crossed Leliana's face. "Yes...?"

"Do you perchance have any soaps?"

Bright blue eyes blinked in surprise at the query. "Yes... I believe so. May I ask why you need them?"

"There's a waterfall nearby, as I'm sure you can hear, and I need a bath."

"Shall I come with you?" Leliana offered. "I could wash your back for you, and perhaps help with your hair."

Myranda smiled a little. "Thank you. I appreciate that." She turned toward her mabari as Leliana dug through her pack for the soaps. "Baby! Here, boy!"

The large dog barked and trotted over to her.

"Leliana and I are going to take a bath," she explained, "and I want you to stand guard."

Baby tilted his head and whined curiously.

"Because you're the only one I trust. Or would you rather I asked Alistair?"

The mabari growled softly.

"Now, now, be nice to Alistair. Besides, jealousy is very unbecoming."

The dog sneezed, then barked.

"Thank you." She looked back at Leliana as she stood, holding a hard cake of soap, a couple bottles, and a silver comb. "Come on."

She led the way back to the waterfall and while the redhead exclaimed at the beauty of the place, Myranda pulled off her boots and stockings and dipped one foot into the water, splashing experimentally.

"Is it very cold?" Leliana asked.

"Well, my toes didn't immediately go numb, so, no. It isn't very cold."

"Does it truly get so cold?" she asked, sounding horrified.

"It does in Wintermarch... even in Highever."

The redhead shuddered. "I suppose it is better than nothing. What I wouldn't give to find a hot spring."

"Do they have hot springs in Orlais?" Myranda asked, shrugging out of her thick leather chestplate.

"A few. The nobles who have them on their lands are considered quite fortunate, and a great deal of coin is made from them as well. Whole towns in Orlais exist solely because of the presence of one of these springs."

Myranda looked up to ask something else, but the question turned to ash in her mouth as she saw the other young woman had pulled off her undershirt and was reaching for the top clasp of her undergarments. "You're getting completely undressed?" she asked, a blush creeping up her face.

Leliana looked surprised. "You do not expect to bathe with your clothes on, do you?" she asked, shrugging the straps of the garment off her shoulders.

"Well... I... er..." She faltered at the redhead's sensible question. "I... suppose not..."

"I shall turn away if you wish."

"No... no, I guess that's unnecessary. After all, we're both women." Myranda felt her face was on fire as she reached for the hem of her shirt.

Leliana watched as the other woman pulled off her shirt and undergarments, admiring her despite herself. "It's too bad we don't have any milk," she said.

Myranda looked over at her, trying not to blush. "Milk?"

"For your skin. In Orlais the ladies would often take milk baths to keep their skin smooth and creamy."

The blonde woman snorted, though gently. "Seems like a waste of good milk to me," she said, stepping quickly into the pool. "I'll be glad to simply wash away all the dirt."

"Indeed."

Myranda unpinned her braids, laying the pins on the sand as the plaits uncoiled themselves down her back. She pulled the right one over her shoulder and loosed the tie before unwinding the hair. When it was completely loose, she tossed it back over her shoulder and pulled the other braid over her shoulder.

"Have I ever told you I really like the way you wear your hair?" Leliana asked, picking up the comb and taking up the blonde mass to gently work free the tangles.

Myranda looked back at the redhead as she unwound the other braid. "My hair? Thank you."

Leliana nodded. "It's very nice and it suits you. Simple... not like the elaborate hairstyles we wore in Orlais. They involved flowers, ribbons, jewels...." She pulled the comb gently through the other woman's long blonde hair. "One year, feathers were all the rage, and Lady Elise decided she needed to outdo everyone else, and actually wore live songbirds in her voluminous hair. The chirping was quite charming for a while, but you must realize, terrified little birdies often have loose bowels."

Myranda laughed as she tossed the other half of the heavy mass over her shoulder. "Poor Lady Elise!"

"Yes... you can imagine what she looked like by the end of the evening." She smiled a little before shaking her head. "But I was trying to say something nice to you, wasn't I? Oh, forgive me. My mind wanders so."

The Grey Warden smiled as she looked at the other woman over her shoulder. "It's all right. I tend to do that myself."

Leliana returned the smile. "Not often, I imagine. You were so serious until very recently."

"I... hadn't felt like smiling until recently."

"It's been nice to hear you laughing," the redhead noted, pulling the comb twice more through Myranda's hair before moving away, satisfied that the knots had been worked out. "I had wondered if you were capable of it."

"So had I," Myranda murmured.

"Pardon?"

"May I ask you something?" the blonde asked, changing the subject.

"Certainly," the other woman said, washing her short red hair.

"What would someone like you be doing in Lothering's chantry?"

Leliana's hands paused. "What is meant by 'someone like me'?" she asked guardedly.

Myranda heard the hint of offense in the other woman's tone and tried to soothe her ruffled feathers. "Well, they don't teach you how to fight in the cloister, do they?" she asked with a smirk.

"The Chantry provides succor and safe harbor to all who seek it," was the reply as her hands resumed scrubbing. "I chose to stay and become affirmed."

"Affirmed?"

"We affirm our belief in the Maker, in Andraste and the Chant," Leliana explained, "but other than that, there are no vows taken."

Myranda lifted an eyebrow at her. "And why were you seeking safe harbor?"

"The Chantry does not pry, and you should?" Leliana asked in irritation. "I desired time apart from the world."

"I'm sorry. I don't mean to offend, Leliana. I'm simply curious."

The redhead sighed. "I was a traveling minstrel," she explained, "in Orlais. Tales and songs were my life. I performed, and they rewarded me with applause and coin. And my skill in battle..." her voice trailed off for a few moments. "Well, you pick up different skills when you travel, yes? Yes, of course."

Myranda's eyes narrowed a little at Leliana's sudden nervousness. Yes... she was hiding something. And she had a feeling she knew what it was.

"Er... let's move on."

"Very well," Myranda said, taking the soap to her hair and scalp. She would let the conversation go... for now. "You may pick a subject."

Leliana smirked a little, deciding to take a chance. It would be dangerous, but she had to know if her suspicions were correct. After the look of pure loathing Myranda had shot her way five days before, she had a feeling she knew how this conversation would go. "Alistair."

The blonde's hands went very still for a moment before she caught herself and continued scrubbing her hair, though with slightly more aggression than before. She wanted it extra clean... that was all. "What about him?" she asked flippantly, trying to contain the raging heat and poison that threatened to flow through her veins.

"You're fond of him, aren't you?"

Myranda looked over at the other woman, surprised and nervous at the sudden mention of something she had been struggling with. "He's my friend," she said casually, her jealousy diminishing at this uncomfortable turn in the conversation. "Of course I'm fond of him."

"That wasn't what I meant. I mean that you're attracted to him."

"I... I don't know what you're talking about," Myranda said, feeling the heat of the damning blush in her cheeks as she attacked her scalp with the soap.

"You're blushing," Leliana said with a sly smile. "It is a sure sign of a lie."

"He's my friend," the blonde repeated firmly. "I am _not_ in love with him." She hated how it sounded like she was trying to convince herself of it.

Blue eyes sparkled mischievously. "I never said anything about you being in love with him."

"Good." She dipped her head back to rinse the suds from her hair. "Because I'm not."

"But surely you find him attractive, don't you? He's quite handsome, you know."

"I... well..." Myranda looked away, hating how embarrassed she felt. "It doesn't matter," she said firmly, quickly regaining her control and rebuilding her mask as she scrubbed furiously at her arm. "He's my friend, nothing more."

The redhead smirked at the way the Grey Warden kept repeating the sentiment. "Perhaps it could become something more?"

"Perhaps, but not, I think, likely. I'm not sure he could see me as anything more than a friend. I am his Sister Grey Warden, and I think he puts a great deal of emphasis on 'sister.'" She was somewhat surprised to hear herself sounding mildly regretful. "I doubt he's even noticed me in that way."

"I wouldn't say that," Leliana countered. "Men notice women, even if they don't realize that they do." She laughed slightly. "Unless, of course, they are complete fools, which Alistair is certainly not. I am quite certain he has noticed how beautiful you are."

Myranda snorted softly at this last. "Oh, yes," she said, "perfectly lovely covered in darkspawn blood."

"Scoff if you like, but you really are quite beautiful, you know. I'm certain he's noticed." She grinned. "And I've seen the way you look at him."

Green eyes snapped to the redhead, staring at her in shock for a moment before closing with a sigh. "As I said, it doesn't matter." She cleared her throat, deciding to change the subject. "I heard that, in Orlais, minstrels are often spies."

Leliana suddenly went very still. "Where did you hear this?"

"I read it in a history book," Myranda said with a shrug, making up the reason to get a semblance of truth from the other woman.

"And did you not think that this could be historical fact, and no longer true?" the redhead asked with a laugh, visibly relaxing. "Not all minstrels are spies, most are just singers and storytellers. But some of them are... are what we call bards."

"What's the difference?"

"Many use the two words 'minstrel' and 'bard' interchangeably, but to do so in Orlais would cause misunderstanding. Bards are minstrels... and more. Spies, as you say. Some say there is a bard order, but I don't think this is true. Many bards work alone, or in small groups, doing the bidding of a patron who pays for their services. If there is an organization behind it all, no one knows who they are."

"Patron?" Myranda repeated. "What sort of patron?"

Leliana shrugged. "Nobles, mostly."

"What sort of services does a bard offer?"

"What do you think? They infiltrate, steal... sometimes assassinate." She shrugged again. "It depends on the bard."

"Is there a great need for that sort of thing?"

"In Orlais there is much rivalry amongst the high-born. They fight over land, influence, and the favor of the empress. But they cannot do this openly, because it is impolite, and in public they wear smiling faces and pretend to be civil. In secret they plot and scheme to destroy each other. It is a game completely meaningless to anyone but its players."

The description left a sour taste in Myranda's mouth. That in Orlais such behavior was commonplace was revolting. "You seem to know quite a bit about these bards," she noted.

The redhead sighed and looked down at the water. "And I should, shouldn't I, after having spent most of my adult life as one. You've guessed as much, I'm sure." She glanced up to see the blonde's nod before lowering her eyes again. "But does it really matter what I was? What's past is past."

Myranda nodded slowly, looking down at the water herself. "So that's where you learned to fight like that."

"My skills served me well, but the day finally came when I decided to just put them aside."

The tone of the bard's voice caused Myranda to look up, her green eyes narrowed slightly.

"I... found myself in Ferelden and sheltered from bad weather in the Chantry. And when the storm passed I just... did not want to leave." She lifted her blue eyes. "I like to say the Maker brought me here."

The blonde woman smiled a little then. "The Maker has allowed for worse things to happen."

Leliana allowed herself to return the smile. There was silence for a few minutes as the two women finished their bath before Myranda spoke again hesitantly.

"Leliana?"

"Yes?"

"Have you ever... been in love?"

The bard suddenly looked uncomfortable. "I... was, once. But that was before I left Orlais." She looked back at Myranda. "Have you?"

"Yes, long ago. With one of the knights at the castle where I lived. At least, I think I loved him." She sighed heavily in exasperation. "It makes no difference now. Come on, before our skin starts to wrinkle from sitting in the water too long." She dunked under the water as Leliana headed for the shore to make sure that all of the soap had been rinsed from her hair before heading to the shore herself. She picked up her undershirt, which she had left on the tiny beach, and her nose wrinkled in disgust. "Ugh. I can't wear this shirt. It's filthy."

"Do you have anything else?" Leliana asked, wrapping her blanket around her slender body.

Myranda paused, staring at the shirt in her hands. "Yes," she said slowly. "I have one gown I bought in Lothering. I don't know why I did it... it's impractical at best."

"I understand."

She looked up at the bard. She hadn't said it to be polite: she truly understood the inexplicable reason for the impractical purchase. She smiled. "It's in my pack, at the bottom, still wrapped up."

Leliana smiled. "I'll bring it to you."

"Thank you." She grabbed the hard bar of soap and plunged back into the pool with it and the shirt.

 

Alistair looked up as Leliana emerged from her tent, clad in a familiar pink robe embroidered with a golden sun, the shoulders of the garment stained darker from the water dripping from her short red hair. "You kept your Chantry robe?" he asked.

"I did... and I'm glad of it. Otherwise I'd have nothing to wear."

He looked around, but saw no sign of his fellow Grey Warden. "Did Myranda not come back with you?" he asked.

"She's doing some laundry," Leliana said. "She'll be back in a short while. I have to take her some clothing."

"Does she want some help with it?"

"Perhaps." The redhead grinned mischievously at him. "Although I don't know how she'd react to your offer to dress her."

Alistair flushed a bright crimson. "What?"

"The clothing is for her to wear," she said, rummaging through Myranda's pack before pulling out a parcel wrapped in plain paper. She held it out to him. "You can take this to her with your offer, if you wish."

"No! No, that's... no."

Leliana laughed softly before walking past him back toward the forest. "She'll be back soon."

Alistair groaned and retreated back toward the fire. Well, _that_ had turned into an awkward conversation. It was probably best not to think about it overmuch... the idea of Myranda dressing would just be.... He found his mind wandering down that path and ruthlessly dragged it away, feeling the blush creeping back up his neck. _'Don't think about it,'_ he told himself firmly. _'Just don't think about it.'_

He didn't know what to do. He'd never spent an extended period of time with a woman... there were the sisters, of course, but none of them had been like Myranda. Myranda was young and pretty, and was starting to show a vibrancy and a humor that he appreciated more every day. She was a good friend, and she seemed to like him, too. And fortunately he could talk to her without getting flustered and embarrassed... most of the time, anyway.

He felt someone watching him and looked around to see the mabari standing next to him, staring up at him and wagging his tail. "I think they do it on purpose," he told the dog.

Baby whined and cocked his head to one side.

"Leliana and Myranda. You've seen them," he said. "They try to embarrass me on purpose."

The mabari barked conversationally.

"It's not my fault, you know," he went on, kneeling in front of the dog. "I've spent most of my life in an abbey. I don't have a lot of experience with women. Let's be honest: I don't have _any_ experience with women." He sighed a little. "Does Myranda do that sort of thing a lot?" he asked suddenly.

He was answered by another curious whine.

"You know, the teasing. Does she do that a lot?"

Baby barked a few times before turning in a circle and barking again.

"I don't know if that's encouraging or not." He stood and frowned. "Probably about as encouraging as trying to get advice from a dog," he muttered.

The dog's ears laid back and he growled softly.

"Now, Baby, what have I told you about being nice?"

Alistair looked up at the feminine voice and thought his jaw would hit the ground at the sight that met his eyes. She was a Vision, clad in a light blue gown that hugged her body to accentuate her every curve. The gown was trimmed in gold with a dark maroon underskirt that complimented the pale blue perfectly. A gold cincher emphasized her narrow waist and the slight flair of her hips, drawing his eyes downward before he forced them back up to her face. Her long, damp blonde hair fell down her back and over her shoulders to her hips in glorious golden waves that his fingers suddenly itched to touch. She carried in her hands a comb and a long sword, the hilt of which was wrapped in dark black leather and decorated with two gold bands. The pommel was a circle of gold, inset with a bright green crystal that caught the light and glimmered brightly. He found himself slightly surprised that the scabbard didn't shimmer from the heat of the blade it held, a blade he was almost certain would be wreathed in flame if drawn. "Dear Andraste," he found himself murmuring breathlessly. Surely this was the Prophetess Herself?

The Vision looked at him and a slight smile crossed her lips, her dazzling green eyes bright with mischief.

"Why are you staring at me like that, Alistair?" Myranda asked, sitting elegantly on a nearby log with her back to the fire and propping the sword up against her leg. "You look as if you've never seen me before."

"I..." Alistair swallowed, his throat suddenly and inexplicably dry. "In a way I haven't."

Myranda blushed slightly—and very prettily, Alistair decided—before running a hand through her hair. "It's true, it's the first time you've seen me with my hair down. It will probably be the last time, as well. I'd forgotten how long it takes to dry. In fact, I'm thinking about cutting it all off."

"Don't."

She looked up at him.

"It's... you look..." he struggled for the words, even more so when she raised her eyebrow expectantly. "Something," he ended pathetically.

She laughed softly. "Are you always this eloquent?" she teased.

"Usually," he said with a slight smile. "Sometimes I'm worse."

"It's amazing the girls don't fall a dead faint at your feet."

"Shocking, isn't it?" He changed the subject then. "I don't think I've ever seen you carry that sword before."

Myranda lowered her eyes as her hand wrapped gently around the hilt. "No, you haven't," she said softly. "I've been trying to keep it safe."

"May I...?"

She looked up at him, considering him for several moments before finally, hesitantly, she lifted the blade toward him.

Alistair took the sword from her before drawing it from the sheath. It was an elegantly narrow weapon with a few runes carved into the blade. He held it carefully, weighing the balance in his hand as he examined it. "It's so light."

"It's enchanted," Myranda explained. "And it's as sharp as the day it was first wielded in the service of King Calenhad."

"A beautiful weapon," he said, sheathing the blade and handing it back to her. "It suits you."

Myranda blushed again as she took it from him. "Thank you," she said softly. "And I suppose I won't use it to cut off my hair." She leaned the sword up against the log next to her before picking up the comb she had set in her lap. "Though I still have to comb it out."

"Shall I leave you to it, then?"

"Actually, I have some questions, if you don't mind," she said, waving the comb toward the place next to her.

"Of course," he said. A puzzled look crossed his face as a soft scent wafted toward him as she combed the long golden mass.

"What's the matter?"

"I... keep thinking I smell roses."

"Oh," Myranda laughed. "It's an oil I put on my hair. I used more than I usually would, because I'm not sure when my next bath is going to be."

"Ah. I wondered if I was crazy there for a minute."

"Perhaps you are. Time will tell."

He laughed at that.

"So why have you remained a templar if you hate the Chantry?"

"Poke, poke, poke. 'Tell me everything about your life, Alistair.'" He smiled then, to show that the ribbing was good-natured in its intent.

Myranda looked over at him and grinned before leaning over and poking him in the side, where she remembered he was most ticklish. "Poke, poke, poke!"

"Hey!" Alistair laughed and moved away from her a little. "Stop it!"

She laughed at him before sitting up again, pulling the comb methodically through her hair. "So why _did_ you remain a templar?"

"Have you seen the uniform?" he asked. "It's not only stylish, but well-made." He grinned. "I'm a sucker for good tailoring."

"Oh?" She glanced over at him. "I don't think I've ever seen you wearing it."

"I keep it hidden under my pillow. Sometimes I'll take it out just so I can hug it fondly and remember the good old days." He sniffed dramatically. "Brings a tear to the eyes, you know?"

She smirked. "So you stay a templar out of sentiment?"

"Oh, sure. They said that all the self-flagellation would be unpleasant, but you know what they say: one man's pain..."

The comb paused its methodical rhythm and Myranda lifted an eyebrow at him.

"You don't really want to know about my being a templar, do you?" Alistair asked, changing the subject quickly before she decided to start taking his rambling seriously. "It's really quite boring."

She gave him a one shouldered shrug. "Then make up something more exciting."

He paused. "You know," he said after a moment, "I like the way you think. But I guess if you're really curious, there's no harm in obliging." He grinned at her then. "I have a couple of interesting-looking moles I can show you later, too, if you're interested."

She laughed softly, trying not to blush as she nudged him gently in the ribs.

"The truth of the matter is that I did hate going to the monastery," he said, looking away. "The initiates from poor families thought I put on airs, while the noble ones called me a bastard and ignored me. I felt like Arl Eamon had cast me off, unwanted, and I was determined to be bitter." He paused, thinking. "But I took some solace in the training itself, I guess," he went on. "I was actually quite good at it."

Myranda nodded. "I understand."

"Using the abilities I have came after years of education and discipline that was difficult to achieve, if rewarding. The sword training and religious doctrine all came later." He paused again thoughtfully. "I never really felt at home anywhere, though, until I joined the Grey Wardens," he said. "And Duncan felt my templar abilities might be useful for when we encountered darkspawn magic, so I kept it up."

"I see."

"What about you?" he asked suddenly. "Do you have anywhere you consider home?"

She paused. She could say the castle was her home, but would it ever be with the tragic memories hanging over it? "I guess my home is with the Grey Wardens now." She looked up at him. "With you."

"Really?" He smiled a little. "I... I guess I like the sound of that."

She returned his smile before pulling the comb through her hair again.

Alistair watched her for a few moments, noticing how the even strokes of the comb always ended with a flick of her wrist. "We won't always be traveling like this, you know," he said. "Once the war is over, once the Blight is... well, a time will come when we'll have to think about having a _real_ home again."

A soft sigh escaped the blonde woman. It was nice to think of having a home she could return to.

"Though that does seem like a far ways off," Alistair said, a soft note of sadness creeping into his voice. "And I suppose the Grey Wardens are gone for good, either way."

"They can be rebuilt," Myranda said simply.

"I suppose you're right. We can create new Grey Wardens, but we'll never get back those we lost. I wonder if it would ever feel the same?"

"Probably not. But we can't let the Order in Ferelden die with us. It's our responsibility."

"I suppose so."

"I _know_ so. We can do it. We'll make it through this Blight and I'm sure that, together, we can make a new family of Grey Wardens." He looked over at her and the sexual implications of what she'd just said hit her suddenly. She blushed darkly and looked away. "So... what changes about you after the Joining?" she asked, desperate to change the subject.

"You mean other than becoming a Grey Warden?"

"You've been a Grey Warden longer than I have."

Alistair looked up toward the sky thoughtfully. "You know," he said after a moment, "I asked Duncan this, too, and all I got was, 'You'll see.'"

Myranda gave him a puzzled look. "He wouldn't tell you?"

"It's not that Duncan wants to keep it a secret," he qualified. "It's just that the Grey Wardens don't discuss it much. I gather it's not a pleasant topic."

"Hm. There's quite a few things about the Grey Wardens that aren't pleasant topics, apparently. The Joining, the whole 'being able to hear the darkspawn'..." She shook her head before looking back at him, reaching up to push a stray lock of hair back behind her ear. "Surely there's _something_ you can tell me."

He thought about it for a moment before speaking again. "The first change _I_ noticed was an increase in appetite. I used to get up in the middle of the night and raid the castle larder. I thought I was _starving_."

She found herself smiling, though the symptoms were familiar.

"I'd slurp down every dinner like it was my last," he said, laughing, "my face all covered in gravy. When I'd look up, the other Grey Wardens would stare... then laugh themselves to tears."

"I haven't felt anything like that," Myranda said mock-imperiously, fighting back a laugh of her own.

"Really?" Alistair asked teasingly. "Because I was watching you wolf down food the other day and I thought, 'It's a good thing she gets a lot of exercise!'"

She giggled. "What can I say? I'm a growing girl."

"I'll say!" He blinked as her bright green eyes locked on his. "Uh... I didn't mean it like that. Heh. Don't hit me!" he said, holding up his hands in surrender as she lifted her fist. "I bruise easily!"

Myranda laughed and gave him a playful shove instead. "Come on, what else?"

"What else?" he mused as he looked back up at the dark sky. "Oh... and then there were the nightmares."

Myranda's face fell immediately.

"Duncan said it was part of how we sense the darkspawn. We tap into their..." he trailed off for a moment, searching for the word. "Well, I don't know what you'd call it," he said finally. "Their 'group mind.' And when we sleep, it's even worse. You learn to block it out after a while, but at first it's hard. It's supposed to be worse for those who Join during a Blight." He looked over at her. "How is it for you?"

Myranda stared at the ground, pressing her haunting memories back into their box. "Nightmares..." she murmured. "Yes, I... I know what you mean."

He frowned, disturbed by the horror on her face and in her voice. "Some people never have much trouble, but that's rare," he said, trying to be comforting. "Others have trouble sleeping their entire life. They're just more sensitive, I suppose."

"I hope I'm not one of those last."

He hoped not, too, but would it be right for him to say so? "I didn't think I'd ever get rid of the nightmares," he admitted.

She looked at him. "How is it for you now?"

"Better. I still get them occasionally, but I think it's because of the Blight. Hopefully once the archdemon is gone they'll go away again." He sighed. "Everyone ends up the same, though," he went on. "Once you reach a certain age, the _real_ nightmares come. That's how a Grey Warden knows his time has come."

Myranda looked over at him, one eyebrow raised. "'His time has come'?" she repeated.

"Oh, that's right. We never had time to tell you that part, did we?" He smiled grimly when she shook her head. "Well, in addition to all the other _wonderful_ things about being a Grey Warden, you don't need to worry about dying from old age. You've got thirty years to live. Give or take."

Green eyes widened in shock, the comb nearly falling from her fingers. "Thirty...? _Why_?"

He frowned. Maybe he should have broken the news more gently. "The taint," he said gently. "It's a death sentence. Ultimately your body won't be able to take it."

Myranda looked at the ground and sighed. "Thirty years." She shook her head slowly. "What happens then?"

"When the time comes, most Grey Wardens go to Orzammar and die in battle rather than... waiting. It's tradition."

"Why Orzammar?"

"You'll always find darkspawn down where the dwarves are. The oldest Grey Wardens head to the Deep Roads for one last glorious battle. Not that there's a shortage of darkspawn during a Blight," he added, "but that's the tradition. The dwarves respect us for it."

Myranda pushed her hair back behind her, laying the comb in her lap before folding her hands. "I see," she said softly.

"And you wondered why we kept the Joining a secret from the new recruits!" he said, attempting lightness. "Well, there you have it."

"Yes... yes, I understand now."

Alistair frowned. "You know, Duncan..." he began softly, "he started having the nightmares again. He told me that—in private. He said it wouldn't be long before he'd go to Orzammar himself."

Myranda looked up at him.

"I guess he got what he wanted." He shook his head sadly. "I just wish it had been something worthy of him."

"He will be remembered, Alistair," she said gently. "As will the others. They died with honor."

He nodded. "I know." He lifted his eyes up to watch a thin cloud slide in front of the moon. "Ending the Blight... should make this all worthwhile right?"

"I would think so." She frowned. "'From this point on, you're on your own,'" she said, repeating the now prophetic words before sighing softly. "I don't think he meant for this to happen. I don't think he meant for a lot of things to happen, but here we are." She looked at him. "We have to see this through. We have to end this Blight... for him. And for Cailan."

He looked at her for a few minutes before nodding.

Myranda racked her brain for something that would distract from the melancholy. "What was it like to be a Grey Warden with all the others?" she asked finally.

Alistair shrugged. "I didn't know them for very long, but I guess it was longer than you." He looked back at her. "You never met them all, did you?"

She shook her head. "I never met any of them. There... wasn't time, I guess."

"They were quite a group," he told her. "Actually, they felt like an extended family, since we were all cut off from our former lives."

"Really?"

He nodded. "We also laughed more than you'd think. There was this one time..." he started before catching himself and subsiding. "Well, you probably don't want to hear stories about men you didn't know."

"No," Myranda assured him, "I'd like to hear about them."

A small smile crossed Alistair's lips as he stared off into the distance, remembering. "There was one Grey Warden who came all the way from the Anderfels. What was his name?" he wondered aloud. "Gregor? Grigor?" He shook his head, letting the elusive name go and looked at her. "He was a burly man with the biggest, fuzziest beard you've ever seen." He laughed a little. "And the man could _drink_. He drank all the time, but never got drunk! Finally we all made a pool to see just how many pints it would take to put him under the table."

Myranda giggled softly. It gladdened her heart to see him so animated and to hear him sound so happy. "Sounds like you had a lot of fun."

"Sometimes. We were kin, of a sort. All of us had gone through the Joining, so we knew... anyhow, it doesn't have to be deadly serious all the time." He shook his head slightly. "Anyhow, we never did find out. He said he'd drink a pint for every half-pint that the rest of us drank. He was still going by the time the rest of us were passed out."

She laughed at the image.

"I'm told that Duncan walked in later on and saw us all passed out from one end of the hall to the other, and Gregor still drinking. Duncan laughed until he nearly... until..."

Myranda looked up, startled, as she mentally finished the sentence. Alistair's face registered as much misery as it had happiness moments ago. "I'm sorry," she murmured. "This must be hard for you."

"Yes, I... I suppose so." He closed his eyes and lowered his head. "I thought I was done with this, but...." He felt her hand on his arm and looked over at her. "It just struck me that I have nothing to remember Duncan by. Nothing at all. There's no body, not even a token of his that I could... take with me." He lowered his eyes to the ground. "That must... sound really stupid to you."

Myranda lowered her eyes, wrapping her hand around the pommel of the Cousland sword. "Not at all," she murmured.

"I just would have liked something of his to take with me, that's all."

"I understand that. Better than you know." She picked up the sword and laid it across her lap, her fingers tracing the decoration on the hilt. "This is the family sword of the Couslands," she said. "It's been in my family for generations. I saved this from our treasury because I couldn't allow Howe to have it... I'll use it to sever his treacherous head first." She frowned. "It's... all I have to remember my parents."

"Then you should wear it."

She looked over at him.

"This sword is your family treasure. You should be proud to wear it and use it to defend Ferelden. Think of it as a way to honor your family."

Myranda stared at him in shock for several moments before looking back at the sword. "I... I guess I hadn't thought of it that way before. Though I suppose Father would have wanted it that way." She looked back over at him and smiled a little. "Thank you."

She watched him return her smile and found her eyes lowering back to her lap as her heart squeezed gently in her chest. Oh, what in Andraste's name was the matter with her? There was no reason for her to be feeling—or worse still, _acting_ —this way! A distraction... she needed a distraction.

Alistair watched her, wondering at her sudden shyness. Or... or maybe she was hiding her hurt. Damn it... why did he always have to mess things up? "So," he began, frantically looking for a way to distract her, "how much longer before we get to Redcliffe?"

She placed the sword on the ground by her feet before speaking again. "We should be there in a couple days."

He blinked in slight surprise. "So soon?"

"I think so." She looked over at him, confused by his sudden unease. "Are you all right?"

"Hm? Oh. Yes. Fine."

There was something on his mind, she could tell that much, but what it was she couldn't imagine. Perhaps it was just concern for the arl. "I'm sure the rumors are exaggerated," she said, trying to comfort him.

"I hope so. I don't want him to think that I still hate him... I can't let him die thinking that."

"I'm sure he understands. Fathers were boys once, themselves."

"He wasn't my father."

"But he raised you... and since you don't know who your father was, he's really more of a father to you than anyone else." She watched him look away as if he didn't dare meet her eyes. Was he hiding something? What was it? She didn't dare flatter herself into thinking it was any sort of feeling for her. She was just a friend to him, after all. But had he thought about...? Oh, he was a man, of _course_ he'd thought about it. But... She looked down toward the ground. "One last question, if I may."

"Of course."

Myranda fidgeted with her comb, suddenly embarrassed but not entirely sure why. "If you were raised in the Chantry," she began slowly, "have you never...?" She lifted her eyes to look at him as she let her voice trail off suggestively.

"Never...?" he repeated, lifting an eyebrow at her. "Never what? Had a good pair of shoes?"

She grinned and nudged him. "You know what I mean."

"I'm not sure I do," he said with a smirk, his tone teasing her gently. "Have I never... seen a basilisk? Ate jellied ham? Have I never licked a lamppost in winter?"

"Now you're making fun of me," she complained lightly, crossing her arms over her chest and faking a pout.

"Make fun of _you_ , dear lady?" he said with exaggerated astonishment. "Perish the thought!"

She giggled a little.

"Well, tell me..." he went on, grinning at her, "have _you_ ever licked a lamppost in winter?"

Myranda looked up at him, catching the unmistakable suggestion and innuendo in his voice, and smiled sweetly. "I've licked my share of lampposts and then some," she said as she folded her hands primly in her lap.

Alistair blinked, surprised at how easily and skillfully she had thrown the euphemism back at him. The words and the tone had been innocent enough, but there was nothing innocent about the look in her bright emerald eyes. Also, there was the idea that... "That's... a disturbing mental image you've conjured for me, right there," he said, fighting the blush he could feel creeping up his neck as the blonde woman laughed softly. "I, myself, never had the pleasure," he admitted, lingering slightly on the last word. "Not that I haven't thought about it, of course, but..." he shrugged. "You know."

Myranda couldn't suppress the girlish giggle that rose in her throat.

"What? What's so funny?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing." She smiled at him. "I suppose you've never had the opportunity?"

"Well, living in the Chantry is... not exactly a life for rambunctious boys," he pointed out. "They taught me to be a gentleman, especially around women. That's not so bad, is it?"

"Certainly not." She grinned. "But surely you've kissed a girl before?"

He blushed, embarrassed at the line of conversation and the fact that the full extent of his inexperience was about to be laid bare. "There... weren't a lot of girls in the Chantry. Just the sisters... and that would have been... awkward... at the very least. So... no. I haven't. Though I've thought about it, of course."

Myranda found herself giggling again. "Oh, that's so cute! You're a virgin."

" _Cute_?" He paused for a moment, considering it. "Well, hearing that from a beautiful woman does make me feel much luckier, I'll say that."

Green eyes blinked in slight surprise. "You really think I'm beautiful?" Had Leliana been right after all?

"Of course you are," he said easily, "and you know it. You're ravishing, resourceful, and all those other things you'd probably hurt me for not saying."

Myranda felt herself flush scarlet and looked away. 'Ravishing'? No one had ever called her ravishing before... not even Rory. "You flatter me," she said softly.

"That's what I'm here for. It's a tough job, but somebody has to do it."

She looked back at him and smiled. He could be quite charming when he wanted to be.

"But let us be off," he said with a grin, "lest your risqué talk make my ears blush."

"To bed?"

"Yes. Separately, I might add."

Myranda laughed softly, pulling half of the mostly-dry mass of hair over her shoulder and beginning to braid it. "If you insist." She looked up at him and smirked. "If you don't think it'll be too cold tonight."

He laughed slightly with embarrassment. "It feels a bit warm if you ask me," he said as he stood.

She gave a one-shouldered shrug before tying off her braid and tossing it back over her shoulder before gathering the other half of her hair. "Very well. Good night, Alistair."

"Good night."

Myranda's fingers paused as she watched him walk toward his tent, her eyes sliding appreciatively downward. She giggled softly to herself at the sudden foolish thought that crossed her mind before finishing the braid, picking up the comb and her sword and retiring to her own tent.


	11. Confessions of a Prince

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party reaches Redcliffe to find that the village has bigger problems than just a sick arl.

**Chapter 11: Confessions of a Prince**

 

Myranda stood on one of the red cliffs that gave the area its name, staring down into the valley below. The village of Redcliffe seemed a place that couldn't decide what it wanted to be: a small fishing village hugged the shore of the lake, while a quarry settlement perched in the cliffs nearer to the castle, divided by a large waterfall that thundered into Lake Calenhad. But besides this split personality, there was something strange about the place. She narrowed her eyes. It seemed... quiet. Too quiet.

Alistair watched her nervously. Well, there was no more putting it off. The time had come, like it or not. Best to do it now, before the others caught them up. He climbed up the path to stand at the foot of the boulder she had climbed onto as a lookout. "Look, can we talk for a moment?" he asked. "I need to tell you something I... ah... should probably have told you earlier."

Myranda turned and looked down at him. "What's on your mind?"

"I told you before how Arl Eamon raised me, right? That my mother was a serving girl at the castle and he took me in?" He took a deep breath when she nodded once, bracing himself for the fall of the axe. "The reason he did that was because... well, because my father was King Maric. Which made Cailan my... half-brother, I suppose."

Myranda smirked, hopping down from the rock to stand in front of him on the path. "So... that means you're not just a bastard but a royal bastard?" she asked, folding her arms over her chest.

Alistair blinked in surprise and laughed a little. "Yes, I guess it does at that. I should use that line more often." His face fell again and he looked away uncomfortably. "I would have told you, but... it never really meant anything to me. I was inconvenient, a possible threat to Cailan's rule, and so they kept me secret."

Myranda's smile melted into a look of complete shock, her mouth hanging slightly open. "Maker's breath," she whispered. "You're serious, aren't you?"

"I'm afraid so," he said. "I've never talked about it to anyone. Everyone who knew either resented me for it or they coddled me... even Duncan kept me out of the fighting because of it." He hung his head. "I didn't want you to know as long as possible. I'm sorry."

Myranda closed her mouth and looked down, dropping her hands back to her sides. A range of emotions flooded through her—shock, confusion, anger. Why hadn't he told her this? Didn't he think it _might_ be a good idea for her to know? But then, she knew why he hadn't said anything—she had experienced a similar resentment and coddling. Her presence training with the men in Highever had been unwelcomed at best and detested at worst. Even Rory hadn't wanted her there. It took her injuring three and nearly killing a fourth before they had stopped begrudging her practice time. Even so, they had never truly accepted her, and those that did—including Rory—had been overprotective of her, never training with her with the same force and vigor that they did with the other men. "I think I understand," she finally said, looking back at him.

Alistair sighed in relief. "Good. I'm glad. It's not like I got special treatment for it, anyhow." He shrugged slightly. "At any rate, that's it. That's what I had to tell you. I thought you should know about it."

"Are you sure?" Myranda asked, lifting an eyebrow at him. "You're not hiding anything else?"

Alistair smiled a little. "Besides my unholy love of fine cheeses and a minor obsession with my hair, no. That's it. Just the prince thing."

"Does Loghain know?"

He frowned again. "I don't see how he couldn't; he was Maric's best friend, after all."

"Unless Maric didn't know himself."

"He knew."

Damn. "So... should I be calling you _Prince_ Alistair?" Just the sound of that was... thrilling... somehow.

" _No_!" he cried before lifting a hand to his heart. "Maker's breath, just hearing that gives me a heart attack! It's not true, anyhow... I'm the son of a commoner. It was always made clear that the throne is not in my future. And that's _fine_ by me." He shook his head once. "No, if there's an heir to be found, it's Arl Eamon himself. He's not of royal blood, but he is Cailan's uncle... and more importantly, very popular with the people." A worried look crossed his face. "Though... if he's really as sick as we've heard..." he shook his head again. "No. I don't want to think about that. I really don't."

Myranda frowned. Hopefully the rumors of the arl's illness were exaggerated. She'd hate to see what losing two father figures so close together would do to him.

"So there you have it. Now can we move on?" he asked. "And I'll just... pretend you still think I'm some... nobody who was too lucky to die with the rest of the Grey Wardens," he said with a slight shrug.

Myranda's brow furrowed slightly. "That's not really what you think, is it?" she asked softly.

"No, I... I suppose not." He lowered his eyes. "I don't feel very lucky at all, to be honest." He turned abruptly then and continued down the path toward the village gate.

Myranda stared after him in disbelief. She lifted a hand and opened her mouth to call after him, but the words caught in her throat. What could she say? That she _did_ feel lucky? No, that would make her sound heartless. That she was glad that he had survived, and that she was happy she had been able to get to know him like she had? No. No, there was nothing to say that would make it better. She sighed heavily, dropping her hand and closing her mouth again before following solemnly after him.

 

 

She had barely caught him up when they reached the village gate, where a man who was probably only a farmer and looked quite uncomfortable with the sword he carried was apparently standing guard. He did a double take when he saw them coming and ran up to them, looking immensely relieved.

"I... I thought I saw travelers coming down the road," he said, "though I scarcely believed it. Have you come to help us?"

Alistair and Myranda exchanged a look. "What do you mean?" Alistair asked. "Is there a problem?"

The man's face fell. "So you... don't know? Has nobody out there heard?"

"We've heard Arl Eamon is sick, if that's what you mean," Myranda said.

"He could be dead, for all we know!" the man cried desperately. "Nobody's heard from the castle in days!"

"What are talking about, man?"

"We're under attack," the farmer explained. "Monsters come out of the castle every night and attack us until dawn. Everyone's been fighting... and dying. We've no army to defend us, no arl and no king to send us help. So many are dead, and those left are terrified they're next."

"Hold on," Alistair said, holding up a hand. "What is this evil that's attacking you?"

The man shook his head. "I... I don't rightly know; I'm sorry. Nobody does." He looked at the five travelers for a moment. "I should take you to Bann Teagan," he said finally. "He's all that's holding us together. He'll want to see you."

Myranda's eyebrow quirked upward.

"Bann Teagan?" Alistair repeated. "He's here?"

"Yes. It's not far," he said, turning to go into the village. "If you'll come with me," he said.

 

 

Myranda looked around as they followed the would-be soldier. The village was the picture of despair: there were a few villagers who were attempting to train in archery and swordplay—and doing poorly at all. "I don't like this," she murmured to Leliana, careful to keep her voice down.

"I can't imagine what's happened here," the bard said. "What do you think it could be?"

"I don't want to think what it could be," the blonde said, glancing worriedly at Alistair's back as they climbed the steps to the Chantry. "I _really_ don't want to." She blinked as they walked into the dimness of the Chantry.

The building was nearly filled with people: mostly women and children, but the elderly as well... all looking incredibly frightened. Their escort led them toward the one able-bodied man in the room, who turned as he heard their approach. Myranda's green eyes ran over him appreciatively. He was lean and muscular in his build, with light brown hair that her fingers itched to run through and just enough facial hair to look delightfully scruffy. His eyes were the deep blue of a bottomless pool in which any woman—married or not—would enjoy drowning. There was something about him, a magnetism that undoubtedly turned the head of every woman in Denerim between the ages of six and sixty. This was a man who, with a smile and the right word, would have women volunteering to warm his bed... and who would deny them all out of modesty, courtesy, and humility.

Myranda smirked slightly as she heard Leliana's whispered "Oh my." She had to agree, this was a handsome man who wore his authority like a well-tailored tunic and around whom the mantle of responsibility swirled regally. All of these appealed greatly to her nobility—it was a shame he would have never been considered a suitable match for her.

His dark blue eyes went first to their escort. "It's... Tomas, yes?" he asked before looking at the company, no doubt eyeing the many weapons they carried. "And who are these people with you? They're obviously not simple travelers."

"No, my lord," Tomas said. "They just arrived, and I thought you would want to see them."

"Well done, Tomas." He turned to Myranda and her party then. "Greetings, friends. My name is Teagan, Bann of..."

"Bann of Rainsfere," Myranda finished, "brother to Arl Eamon." She nodded. "I know you, Bann Teagan. Or I suppose I should say I know _of_ you."

Teagan gave her a puzzled look before narrowing his eyes as if trying to call to mind a distant memory. "Is it... possible we've met?" he asked. "You seem very familiar."

"You may have known my father, Teyrn Bryce Cousland. I'm his unruly daughter, Myranda... he may have mentioned me."

Teagan smiled a little. "Ah, yes, that's it exactly, although 'unruly' was never a word he used to describe you." He bowed slightly. "A pleasure to meet you indeed, though I wish it were under better circumstances."

Alistair spoke then. "I remember you, Bann Teagan, though the last time _we_ met I was a lot younger and..." he paused before a slight smile crossed his lips, "and covered in mud."

"Covered in mud?" the bann repeated. He blinked then as if he didn't quite believe his eyes. "Alistair? It is you, isn't it? You're alive!" A true smile crossed his lips then, and Myranda was startled at how completely it transformed his face. "This is wonderful news!"

"Still alive, yes, though not for long if Teyrn Loghain has anything to say about it."

Teagan frowned. "Indeed," he said. "Loghain would have us believe all Grey Wardens died along with my nephew, amongst other things."

Myranda lifted an eyebrow. "You don't believe Loghain's lies?" she asked.

"What, that he pulled his men in order to save them? That Cailan risked everything in the name of glory?" He scoffed. "Hardly." He turned away from them, facing the altar. "Loghain calls the Grey Wardens traitors, murderers of the king." He turned back to them, his face determined. "I don't believe it," he said with a wave of his hand. "It is an act of a desperate man."

Myranda allowed her heart to lift and sing at his words. "At last, a man of sense and reason."

"Please, Bann Teagan," Alistair said. "We need to see Arl Eamon."

"That might be a problem, unfortunately," the bann said. "Eamon is gravely ill."

"So we heard," Myranda said.

"No one has heard from the castle in days. No guards patrol the walls, and no one has responded to my shouts. And then the attacks started a few nights ago. Evil... things... surged from the castle. We drove them back, but many perished during the assault."

"What evil things are you talking about?" Myranda asked.

Teagan paused, hesitating before deciding to give them an answer. "Some call them the walking dead; decomposing corpses returning to life with a hunger for human flesh..." his voice trailed off and he quickly went on. "They hit again the next night. Each night they come, with greater numbers. With Cailan dead and Loghain starting a war over the throne, no one responds to my urgent calls for help... and I have a feeling tonight's assault will be the worst yet."

"Blight, regicide, and now this," Myranda muttered.

"All of Ferelden seems to be crumbling," Alistair agreed.

Teagan looked at him then. "Alistair, I hate to ask, but I desperately need the help of you and your friends."

"It isn't just up to me," Alistair said. He looked at Myranda then. "Though the Grey Wardens don't stand much chance against Loghain without Arl Eamon."

Myranda heard the subtle wheedle in his voice, but she didn't need it. "Of course we'll help," she told Teagan.

His face lit up in relief. "Thank you!" he said. "Thank you, this... means more to me than you can guess."

Myranda felt the smile pulling at her lips.

"Tomas," Teagan said, turning to the man who had escorted the group in.

"My lord?"

"Please tell Murdock what transpired. Then return to your post."

Tomas bowed. "Yes, my lord," he said before leaving them.

"Now then," Teagan said, returning his attention to the group, "there is much to do before night falls. I've put two men in charge of the defense outside. Murdock, the village mayor, is outside the chantry. Ser Perth, one of Eamon's knights, is just up the cliff at the windmill, watching the castle. You may discuss with them the preparations for the coming battle."

"Of course," Alistair said.

"We'll see what we can do," Myranda said. "I'll report back to you before nightfall."

 

 

Outside the chantry, Myranda looked around the courtyard for the man Teagan had described to be Murdock. She didn't have to look for long, as he spotted them first and walked over.

"So you're the Grey Warden, are you?" he asked, eyeing her. "I didn't think they made women Grey Wardens."

Myranda pursed her lips. It was as if no one had ever seen a woman fight before. "I don't think darkspawn care who kills them," she said, managing to keep most of the acid from her voice. She subsided a little at the touch of a hand on her shoulder.

"If you haven't noticed, there aren't darkspawn around these parts. Not yet, anyway. We aren't going to turn aside anyone who wants to help, though," he added, holding up a placating hand, "don't take me for being an ingrate or nothing."

"Well, we do want to help however we can," Alistair said. "You can trust us."

"Name's Murdock," the man said, "mayor of what's left of the village—providing we aren't all killed and hauled off to the castle tonight."

"You can call me Myranda," the blonde woman said. "This is Alistair, Leliana, Sten, Morrigan," she added, pointing to each as she introduced them. She smiled as Baby barked at her. "And my mabari, Baby."

"Not often you see a full-blood mabari," Murdock said, nodding at the dog. "Fair enough. Now what can I do for you?"

"Can you tell me about what's happened here?"

The mayor shrugged. "Don't rightly know," he said. "We heard the arl was sick, and getting worse, but after a while we heard nothing at all." He jerked his thumb up toward the castle. "A few folks went up to the castle to see what was going on. They couldn't get in. Nobody was there, not a soul." He shook his head. "And then those horrid creatures attacked the village. They were everywhere, people dying..." his voice trailed off and he obviously suppressed a shudder. "It was awful. Good thing Bann Teagan was here."

"Do you know anything about Arl Eamon's illness?" Alistair asked.

"No. I know the arlessa sent the knights out for a cure. You can ask Ser Perth about it—he was one of them. He should be around here somewhere."

Myranda looked around. "Dare I ask about morale?"

Murdock sighed. "Morale's about what you'd expect," he said. "These men aren't soldiers—they're villagers defending their homes, and they're frightened."

"'Tis almost palpable," Morrigan muttered.

Sten grunted, apparently in agreement.

"It would help if we had decent equipment," the mayor said. "There weren't enough swords in Owen's shop, and the men's armor is nearly falling off." He shook his head. "I don't think we're in any shape to fight. We'll do our best, of course, but... well, I have my doubts. I just hope I'm alive tomorrow morning."

"We'll be happy to help in any way we can," Leliana assured him.

"We need what little armor and weapons we got repaired," Murdock said, "and quickly, or half of us will be fighting without either."

"Not an option," Myranda said.

"But we're not smiths," Alistair pointed out. "Trust me... you don't want me to try to fix armor."

Murdock pointed toward a forge situated up the hill from the village square—the only one not billowing smoke. "Owen's the only blacksmith who can do it, but the stubborn fool refuses to even talk. If we're to be ready for tonight, we'll need that crotchety bastard's help."

"What's his problem?" Myranda asked.

Murdock sighed heavily. "His daughter, Valena, is one of the arlessa's maids. So he hasn't heard from her since this whole business started. He demanded we attack the castle, break down the gate, and force our way in. I said it was impossible, but he wouldn't listen. Now he's locked himself in the smithy."

"Truly?" Morrigan asked in mocking disbelief. "There is no one else in the _entire_ village who can repair these items?"

"Not by nightfall, and not well enough that I'd be happy to test it in combat. If there were others, don't you think I'd ask them?"

"All right," Myranda said. "I'll see what I can do."

Murdock nodded. "I'd appreciate it," he said. "If he doesn't help, he'll die like the rest of us. What good will that do his girl... or anyone?"

Myranda led the way up to the smithy Murdock had indicated and pounded loudly on the door.

"Go away, curse you!" came the yell from inside. The voice sounded slightly slurred, but Myranda thought she could have imagined it. "Leave me in peace! You've already taken everything out of my stores! There's nothing left!"

"Is this Owen, the blacksmith?" she called. "I need to speak with you."

"Oh? Who is that? What do you want? I've been through enough...."

"I'd prefer not to speak through a door," Myranda said, trying to keep her temper.

"Go away, I said."

"And _I_ said I need to speak with you. Now open this door immediately!"

"All right, all right, let me undo the locks. All I ask is that you don't make any trouble."

They waited, listening to the rasp of a bolt being thrown back, followed by a second, then a third. After the fifth lock Myranda and Alistair exchanged a look.

"When Murdock said he'd locked himself in, he wasn't kidding, was he?" Myranda muttered.

The door opened, though there didn't appear to be anyone inside. Myranda looked at her companions and shrugged slightly before walking inside, immediately noticing the stench that hung in the air like a foul miasma.

Leliana followed, taking a step inside the little building before immediately recoiling, her nose wrinkling in disgust. "Maker's breath!" she swore. "What is that _smell_? It's like someone set a brewery on fire!"

"Somebody's been drinking," Alistair said in a soft sing-song voice as he ducked inside, as if he was admonishing a small child.

Myranda looked over at him, trying not to grin or giggle. "Shh!"

"So I let you in," said a voice from behind them. They turned to face the old man standing on the other side of the door, wavering slightly. "You wanted to talk; now we're talking."

Myranda looked at him, lifting an eyebrow. "Owen, I presume."

"That's me. Now mind telling me who you are?"

"Call me Myranda," the blonde woman said.

"Care to join me as I get besotted?" he asked, lifting a large jug toward her.

"Er... no. Thank you."

"Suit yourself," he said, lifting the jug to his lips. He took three long pulls before lowering it again. The weight of the jug as he dropped his arm back to his side pulled him off balance, and he stumbled sideways. He nearly ran into Alistair, but the templar grabbed him by the arm.

"Here," Myranda said, taking the man's other arm. "Sit down before you _fall_ down."

Between them, the two Grey Wardens managed to maneuver the old man to a chair Leliana found and pushed toward them. He groaned as he fell back into the chair, gazing up at them through glazed eyes.

"Now, is there something in particular you wanted?"

"The question of why you've locked yourself in here comes to mind."

Owen took another long pull on the jug. "My girl, Valena, is one of the arlessa's maids and she's trapped up there in the castle, but the mayor won't send anyone for her!" He took three more swallows. "She's been my life since my wife passed on two years ago. Now she's dead or soon to be." There was another pause, in which he took another swallow. "I don't care what happens to me," he muttered, "or to the village, or anyone."

"Or," Myranda said, "you could work to help save her."

"I'm an old man. Everyone knows we aren't making it through the night." He glared at her drunkenly. "Or are _you_ going to save us?"

"I intend to try," she said.

"Is that so?" He eyed her for a few moments, a look she held firmly. "Huh. Maybe it's the drink talking, but you almost sound like you believe that."

"I do believe it."

"It'd do me a world of good to think maybe someone like you could go in and find her...." He looked at the jug in his hand. "Provided any of us live through the night," he muttered under his breath.

"What about the militia?" Alistair asked. "They need your help."

Owen looked at him, considering the question for a moment before looking back at Myranda. "If you'll look for Valena, I'll re-open the smithy and make some repairs for the militia."

"I'll do my best," Myranda said.

Owen shook his head. "That's not good enough," he said. "Murdock said the same damned thing and I didn't believe _him_ , either." He slammed a fist down on the arm of the chair. "I want a promise!" he said. "Promise me that you'll look for her, that you'll bring her back to me!"

Myranda sighed, clasping her hands behind her. "Very well. I promise you I'll find her."

The blacksmith stared at her for a few long moments. "I'll accept that," he said, subsiding. "It's something to hope for, at least."

"And that is truly all we need," Leliana said sagely. "Hope and faith that the Maker will guide us."

"Right, then," Owen said, standing unsteadily. "It seems I have some work to do, re-lighting the forge and I suppose I'll have to find some iron." He wavered for a few minutes, musing about where to find the iron before he waved his hand as if at an irritating fly. "Murdock just better send his men here as soon as possible if I'm gonna get to all these repairs and get them done by nightfall."

"Thank you."

"If you need anything done... well, just let me know," he said, though his tone indicated that he didn't expect her to ask. "I've got a lot to do now, so you'll have to excuse me."

"Actually," Myranda said, "there is one thing." She pointed over her shoulder at Sten. "My qunari friend here needs some armor. Nothing fancy, just light, substantial, and incredibly durable."

Owen eyed the qunari warily. "Right... I'll see what I can do."

"Do you think it was a good idea to promise him that?" Alistair asked as they left the smithy. "What if we can't find her?"

The other Grey Warden looked at him and smirked. "Do you know what this means?" she asked, holding up her hand, the first two fingers of which were crossed.

Alistair blinked at her before smirking. "That was sneaky," he said.

"I don't know if you've noticed, but I am very sneaky when I want to be." She sighed a little. "I'll look. I won't look _hard_ , but I'll look. But I don't hold on to much hope considering..." she let her voice trail off when he nodded.

"Now what?" Leliana asked. "We'll have to tell the mayor that Owen is ready to do repairs, but surely there is something else we can do?"

Myranda looked down the hill toward the village square. "These people need help," she said. "And they need it quickly."

"That is a certainty," Sten muttered. "You needn't have asked the drunken human for armor."

"I don't intend for you to fight darkspawn or these monsters without armor," she said simply. "I was going to ask when we arrived anyway."

"Unnecessary," the qunari said. "But thank you."

"Will you train these people in swordsmanship? They are badly in need."

"I don't see the point," he said. "These are farmers. They will never be warriors." He paused, then said, "But I will make an attempt."

"Thank you," Myranda said. She looked at Alistair. "Will you help?" she asked him gently.

He nodded. "It'll keep my mind off... everything."

She returned his nod. "That's why I asked," she said with a slight smile. She turned to Leliana then. "Archery," she said.

"Of course," was the prompt reply.

"Good. Now go. I'll be there to help you shortly, Leliana." She watched the three walk away before turning to Morrigan.

"No task for me, oh great leader?" the witch asked with viciously sarcastic disappointment.

"I will need you for the battle tonight," Myranda said. "But before that, can I ask you to do some reconnaissance? I need to know what's going on inside the castle."

"And how do you propose I do so?"

"You're the shapeshifter, but I would prefer something inconspicuous. No dragons, please. These people are frightened enough."

"Oh, very well. If I must."

Myranda watched as the other woman shifted into the form of a crow and took to the air, winging toward the castle. Then, with a heavy sigh for the task ahead of her, she turned and walked back down the hill toward the village.

 

 

Two hours before sunset, Myranda walked into the chantry looking for Teagan. She needed to report their progress, which was as good as could be expected. At least the archers were hitting the targets more often than they were missing now. And there were a few potential rogues among the swordsmen. If only they had more time! Morrigan had returned a few minutes earlier, stating that the castle appeared deserted, that she saw nothing—though she admitted she did not enter the castle itself. It was nothing she didn't already know, but she thanked the witch anyway for her assistance—thanks that was, of course, brushed away.

Teagan turned as she approached. "I hear both Murdock and Ser Perth are ready for nightfall," he said. "Excellent news."

"I think the villagers are a bit more prepared as well."

"Yes, I'd heard that your companions were helping to train them. I thank you for that."

"I'd feel better about it if we had another day, but they should make it through the night now, if the raid is as bad as you indicated it may be. On that point, I want to discuss the situation with you."

"Of course," Teagan said, waving for her to accompany him as he walked away from the main room of the chantry.

"You have some of Arl Eamon's knights here?" she asked him as they wandered out of the main sanctuary.

He nodded. "I have those few who returned from their quest." He looked over at her then. "You know of this, yes?"

"Their search for the Urn of Sacred Ashes," she said.

"Yes." A conflicted look crossed his features. "I... question Isolde's decision to send so many knights in search of this relic, but I am a practical man whereas she is a woman of great faith."

"How many did she send?"

"She kept only a token force, as I understand."

Myranda's green eyes widened in shock before closing as she shook her head. "Stupid," she muttered. "But then, I, like you, am practical."

"Ser Perth was one of the knights sent on this quest. Perhaps you should speak to him if you wish to learn more."

"No need. We met one of your—that is, Eamon's—knights in Lothering. What was his name?" She tilted her head slightly as she tried to recall. "Donner? Donnic?"

"Donall?"

Myranda snapped her fingers and pointed at him. "Donall. That's the one."

"He mentioned he had seen Alistair in Lothering... I assumed it was someone who only resembled him, as I had heard the Grey Wardens all perished at Ostagar and knew he was in the order."

"It was by sheer luck that we managed to escape," she said softly. She didn't tell him _how_ they had managed to escape—the story sounded unlikely even to her.

"My apologies," Teagan said gently. "I know the memories must haunt you still."

"It's all right. The blow was worse for Alistair. I... wouldn't mention it around him, even now."

"Of course."

She looked around, making sure no one was within earshot. "I have a question... a question I ask again now that we're alone."

"Yes?"

"What exactly are these things that attack the village?" she asked.

He sighed. "I do not know," he said. "They seem to be walking corpses, men with rotting flesh that continue to attack even with the gravest injuries. All I know for certain is that these things don't fall easily; you hack them to pieces and still they come."

"No wonder you've been having so many difficulties. And since the villagers aren't trained soldiers, it's no wonder they're so frightened."

"Yes, but even the knights go pale with fright at the idea of these monsters. None of us look forward to the raid that will come tonight."

Myranda mused on this for a while. "So what happens after this battle is over?" she asked after several moments.

"Hopefully we can find the source and stop it before it causes any more damage. With luck, we'll also find Eamon and be able to help him."

She frowned, not wanting to ask her next question, but knowing she had to. "And what happens if Eamon is dead?" she asked softly.

Teagan sighed heavily. "I don't know," he murmured. "If Connor lives, he'll be the arl and I'll need to help him with it. If he's..." his voice trailed off and he shook his head against the unpleasant idea. "Well, I don't want to think about that."

"How old is Connor?"

"He was ten in the spring. He's a good lad, though he takes more after his mother than Eamon."

"Is that bad?" she asked.

"Isolde is a woman of great emotion, as is the case with all women." He glanced at Myranda, who had lifted an eyebrow at him. "I beg your pardon, my lady. Most women."

"Thank you... although sometimes I wonder if I wouldn't be better served had I been born a boy."

"I don't know. You always seemed your father's joy and he mentioned many times how proud he was of you." He glanced at her. "And Ferelden would have been a less beautiful place."

She graced him with a small smile at this comment.

They wandered into a small, secluded chapel, deserted but for the statue of Andraste that stood penitently at the far end of the chamber. It had the feel of a room that had not been used in some time and was all but forgotten. Even the light seemed to have overlooked it as it filtered dimly through the two north-facing windows, leaving the majority of the room cloaked in shadows. "Why are you staying in the chantry with the villagers?" she asked.

Teagan laughed softly, a throaty chuckle that instantly caught Myranda's attention and made her want to quiver with delight. "Ser Perth insists. He wants me to be with the villagers, so everyone he needs to protect is in one place."

"Looking out for his lord. That's admirable... if constraining."

Teagan smiled a little, placing his hand at the feet of the statue. "I don't mind, to be honest," he said before turning to face her. "The point of all this is to protect the villagers, and I can do that best here. This is the last line of defense, should things go amiss."

Myranda's eyebrow lifted. "Should things go amiss?"

"Should the monsters find their way in. I would prefer not to fight in the chantry, but if they come, then so must it be."

"You _alone_ are the last line?"

"We could bring some men in to stand beside me, but I'd rather keep the monsters away from the villagers if possible."

She blinked at him in shock, her respect for him and his sense of duty to his people soaring. "Apparently the rumors are not unfounded, then. I understand you are a skilled warrior."

Teagan smiled a little. "Skilled enough to know there are many far better than myself."

"Skill _and_ wisdom... a rather potent combination." She allowed a small smile to cross her lips as she leaned her hip against the statue's base, folding her arms over her chest. "What else should I know about you, Bann Teagan of Rainsfere?"

"I'm not certain there is much else to know." He frowned. "But this is hardly the time to be discussing personal details, don't you think? We will have to fight for our lives very shortly."

"All the more reason." She gave him a look of mock-admonishment. "Come now, is knowing a little about you too much to ask? I'd like to get to know the man I'm fighting for."

He blinked at her. "I... I beg your pardon, my lady," he said, bowing his head a little. "Where are my manners?"

"It's all right. You have other things on your mind," she said. "And this isn't exactly the usual setting for such conversation."

"You are most gracious to say so, my lady."

"Myranda," she corrected softly. "Please."

He smiled and nodded. "What would you like to know?"

"Do you have any family?"

"Eamon is my elder brother and my sister was the late queen, making Cailan my nephew. But surely you knew all this already?"

"So there's no one... closer?"

"Closer?" He gave her a puzzled look before catching the intrigued lift of her eyebrow. "Oh... you mean, am I married?"

"Yes," she said with a smile.

He looked away for a moment. "I... no. No, I've never had the pleasure." He returned his eyes to her and smiled. "If I did, I'd be lucky to find a woman as lovely as yourself."

"Flatterer," she accused with a small laugh. "Although you can't make me believe that no woman's ever been interested in a handsome man like yourself."

"If they have, they've managed to keep it from me." He lifted one eyebrow then. "If I may be so bold," he went on, "what of you, my lady? Are you married?"

She shook her head. "No, I'm not."

"I find that hard to believe." He grinned at her, a boyish grin she suddenly found incredibly attractive. "Surely, that is a crime somewhere."

One corner of Myranda's mouth lifted in a smirk. "Oh, it's no wonder my father never introduced us," she teased. "He was protecting me from your charms!"

"If I may say, he may have been protecting me from your beauty, as well. I imagine there are few men who wouldn't instantly long for you." He smiled a little, an interesting and interested glint in his eyes, then bowed gallantly. "But I am too bold, my lady. This is hardly the time for such... banter." He stood again. "Please accept my apology."

"For what?" she asked. "I am not offended."

"You're too kind, my lady." His dark blue eyes lowered briefly before lifting to hers again. "Amongst many other things."

She lifted an eyebrow. "Such as...?"

"The word 'captivating' comes to mind."

His lips said "captivating," but Myranda read the word "desirable" in his eyes. A slow smile crossed her lips as she struggled to hold herself under control. "You're flattering me again," she accused gently.

"The truth isn't flattery, my lady."

It was a dangerous game, and he was placing into her hands a powerful weapon: the knowledge that he found her attractive. She had almost forgotten how it felt to hold the reins of control over a man. With one or two appreciative and suggestive comments, she could have him eating out of her hand. Or her... well. "I suppose I will have to add 'attractive' and 'tempting' to the list of your better qualities, then," she said softly.

They stared at each other in electric silence, both seeing the lust and desire in the other's eyes. It was amazing to her to watch his eyes darken until they were almost violet in color, a beautiful transformation. She wanted to dive into the deep, dark pools, to drown in their depths. It would be easy... a quick interlude through that most wonderful of states before they faced near-certain death. And the setting only added an illicit thrill to the thought. She watched him as he started to lean toward her before she reached out and put her hand on his chest, stopping his advance. "Perhaps," she said slowly, wondering when her voice had become so breathless, "we should get back to the matter at hand."

His deep blue eyes blinked as he suddenly realized what he—and they—had nearly done before he nodded and took a step away from her. "Good, then my secrets are still safe." He smiled a little, a smirk that made Myranda regret her decision to stop him. "I was worried for a moment, there."

She retreated a step from him, not trusting herself to be so close to him. "You needn't worry," she said, forcing herself to smile a little. "The secrets that I know, I'll keep."

Their eyes returned to each other and the sexual tension that had started to dissipate swirled around them again. Myranda bit her lip before looking away. She couldn't stay here; he was far too tempting. Her body was screaming its objections to being denied what she wanted, and she was quickly finding herself swayed by the arguments.

"Myranda..."

"No," she interrupted as she looked up, closing the short distance between them and placing her fingers to his lips, desperately ignoring how soft they felt. "No, don't speak, Teagan. There is nothing to say."

A sudden wistfulness crossed his features before he nodded. "Yes," he said when she pulled her hand away. "And there is much to be done."

She nodded. "I should go see that everything's ready," she said, backing away from him. She frowned. "And you have the villagers to tend to and to comfort before night falls."

He frowned as well, the weight of his responsibility settling heavily on his shoulders. "Of course," he said. "Until tonight, then."

Myranda's green eyes closed and she nodded once before she walked out of the chapel. Once in the central nave, she released the breath she had been holding heavily and opened her eyes again, striding purposefully toward the door and out of the chantry. She had to get away... she had to get away and clear her head.

 

 

Alistair looked around the Chantry courtyard. "Where's Myranda?"

"Seeking solace from _you_ , perhaps?"

He glared at the apostate mage. "I'm just going to ignore that."

"The last time I saw her," Leliana cut in, "she was headed up the path toward the mill... near the waterfall."

"Thank you." He edged around the archers training in the yard before turning his steps toward the sloping path to the mill.

As he neared the bridge at the waterfall, he found Baby chewing on an old bone and looking quite content with it. The large mabari looked up at him as he approached, barking and wagging his tail.

"At least there's one of us who isn't worried about what's coming." He smiled a little and tentatively reached down to pat the dog on the head. "How's Myranda? Is she all right?"

Baby whined and looked over his shoulder up the path.

Alistair followed the dog's look to see the blonde woman sitting alone on the edge of the cliff, her legs hanging over the ledge, staring solemnly down toward the village. "Do you think she needs to talk about it?"

Baby barked again, hopping to his feet and wagging his stubby tail wildly.

"Why would she talk to me when she has you?"

The dog's ears laid back and he growled softly.

"Do you think I'm making fun of you? I'm not. I just think she'd rather talk to you than me."

The mabari barked and walked around him and butted the backs of his legs.

"All right," Alistair said, heading up the path. "All right, I'm going." His steps slowed as he got closer to the young woman. Maybe she just wanted to be alone, and who was he to intrude on her solitude? But she looked so... lonely. Maybe she did need to talk. As her friend, he had to try. "You're not thinking of jumping, are you?" he asked when he was close enough. "Ending it all?"

She looked over at him and tried to smile, though her attempt failed. "No," she said, returning to her contemplation of the valley below her feet. "I don't think any of you are going to be lucky enough for that to happen."

"Are you all right?"

She snorted. "That's a stupid question."

Alistair retreated a step, stung by the venom in her voice. "Ah, right. I'll just go then..."

"Wait!"

He looked back to see her looking imploringly at him, her hand stretched toward him. She bit her lip and drew her hand back quickly, sighing heavily and lowering her head as if suddenly drained of energy.

"I... I'm sorry. I just... the waiting is just wearing on my patience. Please," she said, looking up at him again and gesturing to the place next to her, "join me. I only apologize that I may not be very good company."

"Still better than spending time with Morrigan," he said, walking up and sitting next to her.

"High praise indeed." She managed to smile a little. "But thank you."

"So what are you doing up here all alone?"

"I'm making my peace with the Maker. And I'm asking my father to forgive me if I die tonight without avenging his death." A soft sigh escaped her. "I don't like the sound of what's been happening here," she admitted, looking out over the lake that spread behind the village. "I've got a really bad feeling about it."

"Not backing out, are you?"

She shook her head. "No. I promised that we'd help. Not only am I a Grey Warden, but I'm a Cousland, and we do what must be done. But I... don't like it." She sighed again. "I don't like that no one seems to know what we're facing. Corrupted, evil, undead... 'things' doesn't tell me much."

"Have you talked to Bann Teagan?" The blush that colored her cheeks in response to this query confused him.

"I..." she began before clearing her throat, "I spoke with him briefly about an hour ago." She had only just managed to bring herself back under control and to rein in the effects of their 'conversation,' in fact.

"And...?"

"Hm?" She looked over at him in confusion before remembering what they'd been talking about. "Oh... nothing. They're shambling corpses, there's not much else to say. Except that they're difficult to kill."

It seemed that there was something she wasn't telling him. If anything, she seemed more uncomfortable than before. What Teagan had told her must have been terrible to make her act this way. "There is a technical difficulty there, I suppose," he said. "I mean, it isn't like a regular person where you can just stab them and they'll die." He shook his head. "What's the world coming to where the dead won't stay dead?"

She looked over at him, gracing him with a small, grateful smile. He was trying to make her feel better. It didn't matter that he didn't know the true source for her unease—better that he didn't know—it was a sweet gesture and she appreciated the effort. They fell into a comfortable silence, looking down at the village below and listening to the soft refrains of the Chant of Light wafting up from the chantry before she laughed humorlessly. "I don't think I was this nervous before the first night I spent with Rory."

"Rory?"

"Roland... Ser Gilmore. He was one of my father's knights, a friend of my brother's, and a sparring partner of mine." She drew one knee up, wrapping her arms loosely around her leg. "We... well, let's just say there was a time when we saw quite a lot of each other." She sighed. "But we... drifted apart. To him I was 'my lady Myranda,' and, in the end, that was more important than anything else."

"It happens, I suppose."

She looked over at him then. "I'd like to ask you something, if you don't mind."

"Ask away."

"Why did you keep your birthright a secret?"

Alistair winced inwardly. "You... never asked?" he offered.

Myranda's brows dropped and she frowned at him. "That's a cheap answer."

A heavy sigh escaped the other Grey Warden, though part of him was glad his evasive answer hadn't deterred her. "All right, if you want the full explanation, I'll give it to you." He looked back down at the village. "The thing is, I'm used to not telling anyone who didn't already know. It was always a secret... even Duncan was the only Grey Warden who knew." He shifted uncomfortably. "And then _after_ the battle... when I _should_ have told you..." he sighed again and shrugged. "I don't know. It seemed like it was too late by then." He looked back at her. "How do you just tell someone _that_?"

Myranda nodded slowly, looking down the cliff. "I guess I can understand that."

Alistair looked away guiltily. "I... I should have told you anyway. It was important for you to know. I guess... part of me liked you not knowing."

The blonde woman looked back at him in surprise. "You _liked_..." her voice trailed off as she watched the ashamed look cross his features. " _Why_? What happens when people find out?"

"They treat me differently," he said. "I become the bastard prince to them instead of just Alistair."

She frowned as a comment he'd made came back to her: _"The initiates from poor families thought I put on airs, while the noble ones called me a bastard and ignored me."_

He sighed again. "I know that must sound stupid to you, but I hate that it's shaped my entire life. I never wanted it, and I _certainly_ don't want to be king. The very idea of it terrifies me."

"It doesn't sound stupid at all," she said with a sympathetic smile. "It's been a source of unhappiness for you. I suppose it's a natural reaction that you'd want to hide it."

"For all the good it does me," he said glumly. "My blood seems certain to haunt me no matter what I do." He lifted his eyes to stare off into the distance. "I guess I should be thankful that Arl Eamon is far more likely to inherit the throne. If he's all right." Worry lined the edges of his eyes. "Oh, I hope he's all right," he murmured, almost to himself. He looked back at her then, meeting her green eyes evenly. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry for not telling you sooner. I... I guess I was just hoping that you would like me for who I am." He lowered his eyes again. "It was a dumb thing to do."

Myranda stared at him in shocked amazement. Did he really think...? "Alistair, I _do_ like you," she said, "and not because of your blood."

Hazel eyes snapped back up to her green ones. "Oh, I... oh!" He stared at her for a few moments, searching for any deceit and, somewhat to his surprise, found none. She liked him? She _liked_ him! "You see, I... didn't know that," he murmured.

She smiled a little at him. "You never asked."

He felt his heart do a small flip and returned her smile. "I... guess it's kind of a relief that you know now."

"Well, I'm glad."

"I'm still sorry for not telling you sooner. I... I thought it would change how you thought about me."

"Because I'm from nobility."

"Well... yes."

She smiled warmly at him. "It doesn't matter to me what you are," she said. She wrinkled her nose slightly in a silent giggle. "Even if you are a bastard," she teased. The humor left her then, leaving only a pure sincerity. "Prince or commoner, you are my brother Grey Warden and my friend. _That_ is what's important to me."

Alistair stared at her, seeing the truth reflected in her deep, vivid green eyes. He felt the smile tugging at his lips as an unexpected warmth wrapped around his heart. Then, suddenly, the earth seemed to shift under him. He would have been certain he was falling except for the surety of the rock beneath him. It was as if he was seeing her for the first time all over again, and he didn't know why all of a sudden it was making him slightly dizzy and disoriented. "Thank you," he whispered, surprised to find himself suddenly breathless.

"So no more secrets?"

"None. Absolutely not." Except for the inexplicable reeling of his brain and his sudden desire to kiss her, which he'd figure out later.

She nodded once. "Good."

"What about you?" he asked with a grin. "Any dark secrets I should know about?" To his utter surprise, she blushed at the question.

"No," she said, looking away. "No. None." She cleared her throat awkwardly. "It's almost dark," she said. "We should get going."


	12. The Demon in Connor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party storms Redcliffe Castle.

**Chapter 12: The Demon in Connor**

_"Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him. Foul and corrupt are they Who have taken His gift And turned it against His children." ~Canticle of Transfigurations 1:2_

 

"Dawn arrives, and we survived the night," Teagan said the next morning, addressing the villagers. "We are victorious!" He waited until the cheers that rose from the statement started to subside. "And though this victory came at great cost, we must remember none of us would be here were it not for the heroism of these good folk beside me."

Another cheer erupted from the crowd, and Myranda took it in stoically, trying not to yawn. It had been a long night and a hard battle, and though many of the villagers had lost their lives, the attack had been thwarted. She didn't dare lean against the building behind her, lest she fall asleep right then.

"I thank you, dear lady," Teagan said to her, his voice lowered for her ears alone. "Truly, the Maker smiled on us when he sent you here in our darkest hour."

The blonde woman blinked slowly and heavily before shaking her weariness from her thoughts. "There is still much more to do, Teagan," she said.

He frowned at her. "Surely these people deserve some small celebration, don't you think? There is time, yet."

"Not enough. We must move quickly."

Teagan sighed in acquiescence. "I suppose you are right."

"Let us bow our heads and give honor to those who gave their lives in defense of Redcliffe," the priestess, Mother Hannah, said. "Now they walk with He who is their Maker. Long may they know the peace of His love."

"So let it be," the crowd murmured.

Teagan addressed the crowd again. "With the Maker's favor, the blow we delivered today is enough for me to enter the castle and seek out your arl. Be wary and watch for signs of renewed attack. We shall return with news as soon as we are able."

There was a murmur of ascent and the crowd drifted away to assess damage, gather the dead, and begin repairs.

"Now," Teagan said, turning to the party, "we've no time to waste. If you'll come with me."

Myranda nodded before following him down the steps and through the chantry courtyard.

"How are you?" Alistair asked her as they neared the bridge.

"I've been better." She managed to smile a little at him. "Don't worry about me. I'll be fine."

She was putting on a brave face, but Alistair couldn't shake the lingering concern he felt for her.

Teagan stopped just beyond the mill, staring up at the castle. "Odd how quiet the castle looks from here," he mused quietly, almost to himself. "You would think there was nobody inside at all." He turned back to Myranda. "But I shouldn't delay things further. I had a plan... to enter the castle after the village was secure. There is a secret passage here, in the mill, accessible only to my family."

"Truly?" Morrigan asked. "And you did not think to enter the castle before?"

"I had no idea what lurked in the castle!" Teagan countered. "And I couldn't abandon the people of the village! What if—" His voice cut off suddenly as he looked over Myranda's shoulder up the path to the castle. "Maker's breath!" he swore.

Myranda turned to see a frightened woman running down the path, wisps of her grey-streaked brown hair that had pulled loose from the chignon on the back of her head floating around her face down toward her shoulders. Myranda had seen some women wearing their hair in a similar fashion in Denerim and it had looked playful. This woman simply looked disheveled and unkempt.

"Teagan!" she cried, running into the bann's arms. "Thank the Maker you yet live!"

Her Orlesian accent coupled with her obvious familiarity with Teagan and the way Alistair shied away from her confirmed to Myranda her identity: this was Isolde, arlessa of Redcliffe.

"I do not have much time to explain," Isolde was saying. "I slipped away from the castle as soon as I saw the battle was over, and I must return quickly." She bit her lip slightly. "And I... need you to return with me, Teagan. Alone."

Myranda's eyebrows quirked upward at this before her eyes narrowed slightly. "Careful," she said, "this could be an ambush."

"What?" The arlessa turned to her in surprise, as if she had not even noticed her presence. "I...." Her face suddenly became cold. "Who is this _woman_ , Teagan?"

Alistair sighed then, heavily. "You remember me, Lady Isolde, don't you?"

Isolde looked at him, startled. "Alistair? Of all the..." Her face then twisted into an ugly sneer. "Why are _you_ here?"

Myranda saw Alistair wilt beside her and placed a hand gently on his arm before she glared coldly at the arlessa, drawing herself up to her full height—which granted her about two inches over the other woman. "I," she said coldly, "am Myranda Cousland." There was no need to mention her title; she watched in sadistic glee as the blood left the arlessa's face at the mere mention of the name. "And you, madam, have a lot of nerve to speak that way to a man who spent the whole night defending your village."

"They are Grey Wardens, Isolde," Teagan added, though more gently. "I owe them my life."

"Pardon me," Isolde said, glancing nervously at Myranda. "I... I would exchange pleasantries, but... considering the circumstances...."

Myranda nodded slightly in acquiescence. She would not forgive the way she'd spoken to Alistair, however.

Alistair had watched the power shift in slight fascination. Myranda wielded her authority and supremacy as well as she wielded her daggers and bow—a trait he found remarkable. And she had seemed insulted... personally insulted... only after the arlessa had sneered at him. But he had probably imagined that. "Please, Lady Isolde," he said, "we had no idea anyone was even alive within the castle. We must have some answers!"

Isolde looked from him to Myranda and back to him. "I know you need more of an explanation," she said, glancing back at Myranda again, "but I... don't know what is safe to tell." She looked over at Teagan then. "Teagan, there is a terrible evil within the castle. The dead waken and hunt the living. The mage responsible was caught, but still it continues. And I think..." she paused before forcing herself to continue. "I think Connor is going mad."

Alistair and Myranda exchanged a look.

"We have survived but he won't flee the castle. He has seen so much death..." the arlessa's voice trailed off and she grabbed Teagan's hand. "You must help him, Teagan! You are his uncle. You could reason with him. I do not know what else to do!"

"What about Arl Eamon?" Myranda demanded, laying her hand on Alistair's arm again to steady him in case the news was bad. "Is he still alive?"

"He is," Isolde said. "He is being kept alive so far, thank the Maker."

"Kept alive?" Teagan repeated. "Kept alive by what?"

"Something the mage unleashed," was the evasive reply. "So far it allows Eamon, Connor, and myself to live. The others... were not so fortunate." She shuddered in horror. "It's killed so many, and turned their bodies into walking nightmares! Once it was done with the castle, it struck the village! It wants us to live, but I do not know why. It allowed me to come for you, Teagan, because I begged... because I said Connor needed help."

Myranda looked at Alistair. "What do you think?"

"This 'evil' could be some kind of demon," he said. "It sounds like it."

Isolde looked over at them in horror. "Oh, Maker's mercy!" she cried. "Could it truly be a demon?" She looked back at Teagan. "I can't let it hurt my Connor! You must come back with me, Teagan! Please!"

"If it is a demon, he shouldn't go alone," Myranda said.

"For Connor's sake, I promised I would return quickly and only with Teagan," the arlessa told her. She looked back at her brother-in-law again. "I know you could order your men to follow me when I return to the castle," she said, "but I beg you not to, for Connor's sake!"

"The king is dead," Teagan said, almost to himself, "and we need my brother now more than ever." He considered his options for a few moments before apparently making a decision. "I will return to the castle with you, Isolde."

"Oh, thank the Maker!" the arlessa cried. "Bless you, Teagan! Bless you!"

"This is a mistake," Myranda hissed at him. "You're going to get yourself killed."

"I cannot let Isolde return alone," he replied. "Perhaps I can help Connor or Eamon. Perhaps this is really a trap, but this is my family. I must try." He started to say something else then looked over at the arlessa. "Isolde, can you excuse us for a moment? We must confer in private before I return to the castle with you."

"Please do not take too long," she said.

Teagan nodded and took Myranda's arm to lead her away from the group so they could speak alone.

"This is a mistake," she told him again. "I understand this is your family, but how do you expect to fight a mage—possibly a demon—alone?"

"I have no illusions of dealing with this evil alone," he said. "You, on the other hand, have proven quite formidable."

Her green eyes stared into his dark blue for a moment. "You have a plan," she said.

"Here's what I propose: I go in with Isolde and you enter the castle using the secret passage. My signet ring unlocks the door. What do you say?"

"I can't let you do this," Myranda said. "It's insane!"

"What choice do either of us have?" Teagan countered. "If your business with Eamon is important, you're going to have to go inside to find him."

"He's right," Alistair said, walking over to them. "Without Arl Eamon, we'll never get the support we need."

"Ser Perth and his men can watch for danger at the castle entrance," Teagan said. "If you can open the gates from within, they can move in and help you. I don't think there's anyone else who can. If you choose not to go, then it's up to me to do what I can."

"No, you can't go alone. It's a suicide mission!"

"I have no choice. Perhaps I will... distract whatever evil is inside and increase your chances of getting in unnoticed."

"You can't risk yourself like that, it's too dangerous!"

Alistair watched the soft, heated debate before becoming aware of a sudden, sharp feeling of annoyance—the same feeling that had caused him to intrude on their private council. Why did Myranda seem so personally concerned about Bann Teagan's safety? Of course, he was next in line for the arling if something had happened to Arl Eamon and Connor, and he was a valuable ally. Still... did she have to act so worried about him?

"This is the way things must be," Teagan was saying to Myranda.

She opened her mouth to offer another retort before thinking better of it and sighing. "Very well," she said. "If you feel you must."

Teagan nodded. "Here is my signet ring. It will open the lock on the door in the mill." He put the ring in her outstretched palm and closed her fingers around it before taking her hand in both of his, causing her to look up at him. "Whatever you do," he said softly, "Eamon is the priority here. If you have to, just get him out of there. Isolde, me, and anyone else... we're expendable."

Green eyes widened in partial horror at the statement. How could he say such a thing... how could he ask her to...? She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, letting the ice and stone envelop her heart before she opened her eyes again. "I understand," she said flatly. "I'll do my best."

"You are brave as well as beautiful, it seems." Teagan smiled sadly. "The Maker smiled on me indeed, when He sent you to Redcliffe. If only this had been..."

Myranda caught the wistful gleam in his eyes before it vanished and he shook his head.

"But I can delay no longer. Allow me to bid you farewell... and good luck."

She watched him walk back over to Isolde and wave her up the path before following her. She looked over at Alistair, who was frowning at the bann's retreating back. "I'm sure he'll be fine," she said. "He knows what he's doing."

"Of course he does."

Myranda was surprised at the slight acid that colored the words. If he wasn't worried as she'd assumed, why did he look so unhappy about the situation?

"So we are just going to send him with that woman?" Leliana asked as she and the others walked over to them. "It seems so dangerous!"

"We don't have a choice." She looked at the ring in her hand. "Teagan's walking into what may be a trap to distract attention away from us. We're going to fight our way inside." She looked at Leliana. "I need you to run back to the village and tell Ser Perth to assemble the knights at the castle gate. We'll look for the secret entrance in the mill—meet us there."

"Right away," the bard said before turning and running down the path toward the village.

The other four went into the mill, searching for the secret door. They discovered it hidden beneath a particularly heavy sack of flour just before Leliana walked in. Myranda fitted Teagan's ring into the small indentation for it, placing her ear close to the floorboards as she twisted the ring this way and that before finally a section of the floor lifted with a loud click. Alistair lifted the trap door and the group stared down into the black square.

Morrigan was the first to brave the darkness, shifting into a black cat and leaping gracefully inside, disappearing in an instant.

Leliana went next. "Lower me down," she said to Alistair, sitting on the edge of the hole and holding out her hands. Alistair took her by the wrists, holding tightly as she scooted forward off the floor before lowering her down into the darkness.

"How is it?" Myranda called.

"Holy Maker!" Leliana's voice came back. "The stench is terrible!"

Myranda looked at Alistair and shrugged.

"I'll go next," he said, sitting on the edge before dropping inside, landing with a dull thud.

"Come on, Baby," Myranda said to the dog, who barked and padded to the trap door. "Mabari down!" she called into the hole before Baby jumped in. She looked back at Sten. "They usually make these tunnels fairly small," she told him. "It may be uncomfortable for you."

"There is a demon inside," he said simply. "You will need all the help you can get against the _saarebas_ responsible."

She nodded before sitting on the edge of the floor and swinging her legs into the hole before pushing herself inside. Alistair caught her around the waist before she fell, placing her on her feet before quickly releasing her. "Sten's coming," she said, moving out of the square of light before the qunari dropped down beside her.

"Pull the door closed," Myranda instructed the qunari. They all stood in the intense darkness for a few moments, allowing their eyes to adjust before Myranda started down the passage.

"Stop," Morrigan's voice said several long moments later, "lest you wish to run into the door."

Myranda reached out, placing her hand on the door before sliding her fingertips across the metal surface. "This one will have a lock like that for the trapdoor in the mill. Let me see if I can find it."

The witch sighed. "Guard your eyes," she said.

Myranda had barely closed her eyes before a light glowed against her lids. She opened her eyes again to see Morrigan holding a small ball of flame. "Thank you," she said, scanning the door and quickly finding the indent before pulling Teagan's ring off her thumb and placing it in the lock, turning it with a satisfyingly loud click.

The door opened with a loud squeal of metal hinges badly in need of oil. The light in the next room was slightly better, and Myranda could just make out the shape of prison cells.

"We must be in the dungeon," Alistair said as he emerged from the tunnel and looked around.

"Hello?" a voice in the gloom called out. "Who's there? Is there anyone alive out there?"

The group looked at each other before moving down the line of cells. In the fifth one, they found a young man with long, stringy black hair standing near the bars, looking hopeful. He had been tortured recently, if his blackened left eye was any indication.

"Wait," he said, a confused look crossing his face, "you don't look like the arlessa's guards. Are you from outside the castle?"

"Possibly," Myranda said evasively. "Who are you supposed to be?"

"My name is Jowan," he said. "I'm a mage Lady Isolde hired to tutor her son, Connor." He looked embarrassed then. "Until they, ahhh, threw me into the dungeon here."

Myranda narrowed her eyes. "So these undead are all _your_ doing."

"No!" Jowan exclaimed, throwing up his hands as if fending off an attack. "I... I poisoned Arl Eamon, but that's all I did."

" _You_!"

Myranda barely had time to move in front of Alistair and catch his shoulders before he stormed the cell. "Alistair!"

"That's _all_ you did?" he repeated incredulously. "You tried to _kill_ the arl... maybe you _did_ kill him!"

"Alistair, stop it!"

"He deserves to die!"

"I understand, but we need answers!" She grabbed his wrist hard as he reached for his sword, staring at him intently when he looked at her until she was sure he heard her words. "We need to know more about what's happening here," she said firmly, "and we won't find that out if we kill him now!" They stood motionless as she watched his inner debate, determined not to lose this battle of wills. She respected his feelings, but she couldn't interrogate a dead man. Finally, he subsided a little and only then did she release his wrist. When she was certain he was at least somewhat back in control, she turned to look at the mage over her shoulder.

Jowan had retreated to the middle of the cell—out of reach of a sword—and retreated another step at the icy look in the blonde woman's green eyes. "I... I know it looks suspicious," he said, "but I'm not responsible for the creatures and the killings in the castle. I was already imprisoned when all that began."

"Tell me what you know of these creatures."

"At first, Lady Isolde came here with her men demanding that I reverse what I'd done." He glanced nervously at Alistair. "I thought she meant my poisoning of the arl," he said, retreating another step for good measure. "That's the first I heard about the walking corpses. She thought I'd summoned a demon to torment her family and destroy Redcliffe." A look crossed his face that would have been pitiful if he wasn't so pathetic. "She... had me tortured. There was nothing I could do or say that would appease her. So they... left me to rot."

"Why did you poison Arl Eamon?" Myranda demanded.

"I—I was instructed to by Teyrn Loghain."

She closed her eyes and sighed heavily. "Of course you were."

"I was told that Arl Eamon was a threat to Ferelden," Jowan said hurriedly. "That if I dealt with him Loghain would settle matters with the Circle."

"And what's wrong with the Circle?"

"Oh, nothing in itself." He sighed heavily. "You see, I'm a maleficar: a blood mage."

Myranda heard Alistair take a sharp breath through his teeth.

" _You_?" Morrigan laughed. "A blood mage? _Truly_? I would never have guessed."

"I dabbled in the forbidden arts, and they condemned me to death for it," Jowan complained. "I thought Loghain was giving me a chance to... redeem myself." He sighed. "But he's abandoned me here, hasn't he?" He dropped his head into his hands. "Everything's fallen apart," he moaned, "and I'm responsible! I have to make it right somehow, I have to!"

"Wait, wait," Myranda said, holding up her hand and trying to resist the urge to gut the pathetic creature herself. "I don't understand. Why would the arlessa need a mage to tutor her son?"

"Connor had started to show... signs," Jowan explained. "Lady Isolde was terrified the Circle of Magi would take him away for training."

"Connor, a mage?" Alistair asked softly. "I can't believe it!"

"The arlessa sought an apostate—a mage outside the Circle—to teach her son in secret so he could learn to hide his talent."

"And Arl Eamon had no idea of his son's abilities?" Myranda asked.

"No. She was adamant that he never find out. She said that he'd do the right thing, even if it meant losing their son. And that infuriated her. And she found it... humiliating that her son had magic."

The blonde shook her head. "Stupid, stupid woman," she muttered to herself. "And just how much magic did you teach Connor?"

"Some. But he's still very young. He can barely cast a minor spell—never mind something more powerful. At least... not intentionally."

"What's that supposed to mean?" she demanded.

"I have thought about it," Jowan said, "and it's possible Connor could have inadvertently done something to tear open the Veil. With the Veil to the Fade torn, spirits and demons could infiltrate the castle. Powerful ones could kill and create those walking corpses."

"I see," Myranda said. "I think I understand."

"I never meant for it to end like this, I swear," the mage said. "Let me help you fix this!"

"I say this boy could still be of use to us," Morrigan said. "But if not, then let him go. Why keep him prisoner here?"

"Hey, hey!" Alistair said, turning on her. "Let's not forget he's a blood mage! You can't just... set a blood mage free!"

"Better to slay him?" Morrigan shot back. "Better to punish him for his choices? Is this Alistair who speaks, or the templar?"

"I'd say it's common sense," he responded.

"He wishes to redeem himself," Leliana put in, "doesn't everyone deserve that chance?"

"Like yourself, you mean?" Morrigan sneered.

"Everyone deserves a chance to redeem themselves in the Maker's eyes," Leliana said primly. "This man no less than any."

"I don't know," Alistair said slowly. "He is a blood mage... but this is an unusual situation."

Myranda had not turned away from the man in the cell as this conversation occurred behind her, watching his face for any tell-tale signs as the topic of his continued imprisonment or release was debated. He showed no extreme emotion one way or the other, just watched them hopefully. "Sten?" she asked.

"He is _saarebas_ ," was the reply. "Best to leave him penned. Also cut out his tongue."

Jowan paled visibly at this idea. "Give me a chance, please!"

"And how would you make things right?" Myranda demanded, her temper flaring at his incessant whining

The mage looked surprised. "I'd... well, I'd try to save anyone still up there," he said. "There must be something I can do."

"And after that? What happens then? Can you think farther ahead than the immediate future?"

"Afterwards?" He blinked, again with apparent surprise, then sighed. "I assume I'll be arrested. Or executed. Or... whatever people like me get." He sighed again. "I'm tired of running from the Circle. I need to account for what I've done."

"That's commendable," Myranda began.

"I'm glad you think so," the mage said, looking relieved.

Her eyes narrowed. " _If_ it's true," she finished acidly.

Jowan paled and cowered back from her. "So... what now?" he asked.

Myranda stared at him for a few minutes, drumming her fingers on the hilt of her sword. She looked at Baby, who sneezed, before looking back at Jowan. "I think you'll stay in your cell for now," she said.

The young blood mage straightened his shoulders—the first signs of a backbone appearing. "Then I will wait," he said. "If you change your mind, I will be here."

"Fine," she said, turning away. "Come on," she said, hearing Sten fall into step behind her as she walked away. Alistair's footsteps hesitated then followed as Morrigan and Leliana started to argue the point some more.

"So you will leave him caged..."

"But Myranda..."

"It's not my place to decide!" Myranda shouted, whirling on them. "I'm not robbing him of the possibility of freedom in the future, be thankful for that! Now, come! We have to find Arl Eamon."

They emerged from the lower dungeon only to run into more corpses, fighting their way through. Wanting to eliminate them all to avoid another attack on the village, Myranda opened every door, and was often met with a charge of between six and eight of the monsters.

At the sixth room, Myranda threw open the door, sword raised for an attack.

The screaming girl inside, however, startled her.

"Please!" the girl cried. "Don't hurt me!"

"Calm down," Myranda said, lowering her blade. "I'm not going to hurt you.

"I... I'm sorry," the young woman stammered, slowly getting to her feet. "I'm so frightened! These monsters are everywhere!"

"Who are you?"

"My... my name is Valena... I'm the arlessa's maid." She bit her lip. "Is she... all right? What happened to everyone?"

"Valena?" Leliana repeated. "Myranda, isn't that the name of the smith's daughter?"

"You know my father?" Valena asked, looking between the two women. "Please... I want to go back to the village! Is there a way out of here?"

"There is a tunnel leading out in the dungeon," Myranda told her.

"B–but the monsters..."

"We killed most of them," Alistair assured her. "It's safe."

"Go, but go quickly," Myranda said. "Don't stop, and don't look back."

"I'll find my way," Valena said, gathering her courage around her like a cloak. "I can run fast and I know the castle. Thank you."

"Thank us later. Now go." Outside the room, she turned and looked at her companions. "Let's split up," she said. "We'll cover more ground that way. Sten, Leliana, and Morrigan: take this corridor," she said, pointing her sword straight ahead. "Alistair, Baby and I will take this other corridor. If you reach the courtyard before us, open the gate. Ser Perth better be there," she muttered, "or Maker help me, I'll..." her voice trailed off and she looked around. "Go now; kill anything that isn't completely alive. We'll meet with you when we're able."

"Right," Leliana said, trotting off down the corridor, the mage and qunari trailing along behind her.

Myranda looked back at Alistair. "Let's go, then," she said.

"Was it a good idea to split up?"

She allowed herself to smirk at him. "If we can take down an ogre by ourselves, I think we can handle a few undead."

Baby barked in agreement.

They made their way carefully through the passages, making their way up into the cellar only to find the door to the upper floors locked, forcing them to backtrack back into the dungeons. They ran into more undead than Myranda thought possible and she started sneaking through the corridors trying to maintain some level of surprise.

"You know..." Alistair began hesitantly at one point, "maybe this isn't the best time..."

"You're right," Myranda said, peeking around the corner into the next hallway. "It isn't."

"Oh. Right, then. Never mind."

She sighed softly and looked back at him. "What's on your mind, Alistair?"

"Well... I've something to ask you."

One blonde eyebrow lifted in a question.

"Well... chances are we'll be heading to Denerim soon, and, when we're there, I wonder if we might be able to... look someone up."

Myranda smirked and looked around the corner again. "Don't worry. Loghain will get what's coming to him," she said. "I promise you that much."

"No, I... I know that. That's not what I'm talking about."

She turned back to him.

"The thing is," he said, "I have a sister. A half-sister."

"Really?"

"I told you about my mother, right? She was a servant here, and she had a daughter... only I never knew about her. I don't think she knew about me, either. They kept my birth a secret, after all. But after I became a Grey Warden I did some checking and... well, I found out she's still alive. In Denerim."

"Have you contacted her?" Myranda asked.

He shook his head. "No. I thought about writing her, but I never did. And then we were called down to Ostagar and I never got the chance." He sighed a little. "She's the only real family I have left, the only family not also mixed up in the whole royal thing. I've just been thinking that... maybe it's time I went to see her. With the Blight coming and everything, I don't know if I'll ever get another chance to see her. Maybe I can help her... warn her about the danger... something." He shrugged. "I don't know."

She smiled a little at him. "If you want to," she said, "we could try."

"Could we?" he asked, his face lighting up. "I'd appreciate that. If something happened to her and I never went to at least see her, I don't know if I could forgive myself."

"I imagine we'll have to go to Denerim eventually, so I don't see why not."

"Her name is Goldanna and I think she remarried but still lives just outside the Alienage. If we're in the area, then..." his voice trailed off. "Well, it's worth a look," he said.

"It doesn't hurt to look," she said.

He smiled. "Thank you."

Myranda returned his smile, patting his hand before turning back to look around the corner, only to see five undead headed toward them. "Uh oh," she said. "Company."

They fought their way through more undead, finally making it to the courtyard, where a swarm of the monsters moved against them. Myranda saw the knights at the gate, but couldn't break from the battle long enough to let them in. She parried a blow from one of the corpses when an arrow whistled through the air into the thing's neck, startling it enough to give Myranda time to remove its head from its body. She turned toward Leliana, lifting her sword in acknowledgement before pointing the blade at the knights. "Open the gate!" she called.

The bard took off and minutes later, the numerical advantage shifted in favor of the living.

"Alright," Myranda called, climbing the steps toward the castle. "Ser Perth, take your knights and station them through the castle. Watch for more undead." She waved for her party to follow her through the doors, heading straight for the main hall. She looked at the large double doors and took a deep breath before kicking them open and rushing inside.

What she saw made her stop dead.

Teagan was there, amazingly, turning back flips as a dark-haired boy of about ten laughed and clapped in delight. The bann looked at the party over his shoulder, a grotesque smile on his face, before somersaulting toward the child and spinning and sitting on the steps by his feet. Isolde stood in a dark corner, watching the events and looking incredibly unhappy.

"Maker's mercy!" Myranda whispered in horror as she stared at the ten-year-old. She retreated a step and would have fled from the room had Alistair not rested his hand on her shoulder in that moment. The boy, Connor, turned to them at that moment and she managed not to flinch.

"So these are our visitors?" he asked, his voice sounding doubled with a deeper one: that of the demon. "The ones you told me about Mother?"

Isolde stepped forward to stand just behind her son's right shoulder. "Y-yes, Connor."

"And this is the one who defeated my soldiers?" he asked, pointing at Myranda. "The ones I sent to reclaim my village?"

"Yes."

"And now it's staring at me!" he cried, seemingly in partial horror. He leaned forward then, peering at her through narrowed eyes. "What is it, Mother? I can't see it well enough."

"This..." Isolde's voice cracked slightly on the word and she paused before regaining herself, "this is a woman, Connor. Just as I am," she finished in a whisper.

"You lie!" Connor yelled. "This woman is nothing at all like you! Why, just look at her! Half your age and pretty, too. I'm surprised you don't order her executed in a fit of jealousy!"

Myranda's brow dropped. Demon or not, the boy had just insulted her and his own mother—and her indignation at that fact was starting to replace the fear and horror.

"Connor..." Isolde said, a tear dropping from one eye, "I beg you, don't hurt anyone!"

The boy glared at her, then blinked suddenly, his face softening. "M-Mother?" he asked, his voice lacking the deeper tones it had held before. He shook his head before dropping it into his hands. "What... what's happening? Where am I?"

The arlessa fell to her knees in relief. "Oh, thank the Maker!" she cried, taking one of the boy's hands. "Connor! Connor, can you hear me?"

"Get away from me, fool woman!" The demon had returned, and he flung the arlessa away from him with more force than his ten-year-old body should have contained. Isolde fell to the ground hard, sliding across the polished wood floor. "You are beginning to bore me!"

Myranda started to reach for her dagger, but Alistair squeezed her shoulder.

"Don't," he whispered. "Not yet."

"What did you do to Teagan?" Myranda challenged instead.

Teagan laughed maniacally. "Here I am!" he said, grinning stupidly at her. "Here am I!"

Connor laughed at this. "I like him better this way. No more yelling; now he amuses me!"

Isolde had seen Myranda reaching for her dagger and looked at her imploringly. "Grey Warden..." she began, "my lady Cousland, please, don't hurt my son! He's not responsible for what he does!"

Myranda looked at her. "You've been protecting him this entire time," she said coldly. "He's responsible for all that's happened here."

"Connor didn't mean to do this!" Isolde cried. "It was that mage, the one who poisoned Eamon—he started all this! _He_ summoned this demon! Connor was just trying to help his father!"

"And made a deal with the demon to do so?" Morrigan asked incredulously. She sighed then, heavily. "Foolish child."

"For once," Alistair muttered, "we agree."

"It was a fair deal!" Connor-and-demon retorted. "Father is alive, just as I wanted. Now it's _my_ turn to sit on the throne and send out armies to conquer the world! Nobody tells me what to do anymore!"

"Nobody tells him what to do!" Teagan said, grinning like a fool. "Nobody!" He laughed then, sounding quite insane.

"Quiet, uncle!" Connor shouted at him. "I warned you what would happen if you kept shouting, didn't I?" A cruel smile crossed his lips. "Yes, I did." He looked back at Myranda as she tensed. "But let's keep things civil," he said mockingly. "This woman will have the audience she seeks." He faced her squarely then, regarding her as if he were a king facing a lowly peasant. "Tell us... _woman_... what have you come here for?"

Myranda lifted her chin a little, Alistair's hand on her shoulder and his presence by her side holding her steady. "I need to see Arl Eamon."

"So you're a concerned well-wisher," the boy said in surprise. "Why didn't you say that in the first place? All this sneaking around and killing is so unnecessary!" His eyes narrowed dangerously. "But Father is so very ill. We really shouldn't disturb him... isn't that right, Mother?"

Isolde hesitated. "I... I don't think..."

"Of _course_ you don't!" Connor cut her off. "Ever since you sent the knights away, you do nothing but deprive me of my fun! Frankly, it's getting dull."

Myranda felt Alistair tense slightly and barely heard him as he started to murmur under his breath.

"I crave excitement!" Connor was saying. "And action! This woman spoiled my sport by saving that stupid village, and now she'll repay me!" He looked at Teagan. "Kill her!"

Teagan's idiotic façade seemed to melt away as he stood and faced Myranda.

"Teagan?" Myranda said. "Teagan, don't do this."

He ignored her, drawing his sword.

She drew her sword and heard at least three more blades sing from their sheathes as well. "No," she said, holding out her hand. "I'll handle this." She had no desire to kill Teagan, but she had no way of knowing if this was a ploy on his part to trick Connor. She managed to block an incredibly heavy blow as he rushed her. "Teagan?" she whispered, looking into the slightly glassy eyes, looking for him in the dark blue depths.

He sneered at her and pushed away before slashing at her again. No doubt about it: he was really trying to kill her.

The two clashed back and forth, Myranda just seeing out of the corner of her eye how Connor sprinted from the room. In a part of her mind that was somehow able to assess the situation, she greatly admired Teagan's battle prowess—it was no wonder he was praised as a fine warrior. Now if she could convince him to stop trying to kill her... "Teagan, stop this!" she said, dancing out of the way just in time to avoid having his sword plunged into her stomach. It missed her, but only just—slicing through a layer of leather instead.

"Myranda!" Leliana called.

"No!" the blonde replied, seeing the bard draw her throwing knife. "No, don't hurt him!" She parried and dodged more blows, trying to break through to him. "Teagan!" she cried. "Teagan, it's me! It's Myranda!"

He looked at her and smiled—not the boyish grin she had been introduced to the day before, but a dangerous, sadistic smirk. He lifted his sword and swung mightily at her, pushing forward with all his strength when she lifted her blade to block the attack.

Myranda was knocked backwards onto the floor by the blow, her sword spinning across the floor, and she watched as Teagan approached her, his sword held poised for the kill. Just then, she saw Alistair point toward them and a ring of bluish light washed through the room. Teagan's dark blue eyes blinked and he stared at her for a few moments in confusion. He looked then at the sword in his hand and an expression of pure alarm and terror crossed his features before he dropped the weapon and backed away from Myranda, horrified at what he'd almost done.

"Teagan!" Isolde cried, running to him. "Oh, Teagan, are you all right?"

Teagan managed to tear his eyes away from the Grey Warden before looking at the arlessa. "I am... better now, I think. My mind is my own again."

"Myranda," Alistair murmured, kneeling next to her. "Are you all right?"

She nodded shakily. "Yes... yes, I'm fine." She let him pull her to her feet before laying her hand over his where it rested on her arm, looking at him and nodding her thanks.

"Blessed Andraste!" Isolde was saying to Teagan. "I would never have forgiven myself had you died, not after I brought you here. What a fool I am!" She looked at Myranda and Alistair, her eyes bright with unshed tears. "Please! Connor's not responsible for this! There must be some way we can save him!"

Myranda shook her head, squeezing Alistair's hand before he stepped away from her. "I'm not about to kill a child," she said, retrieving her sword and sheathing it.

"Clearly, the child is an abomination," Morrigan said in what, for her, was a gentle voice. "There is... only one way to stop it."

"He is not always the demon you saw," Isolde said. "Connor is still inside him, and sometimes he breaks through!" She looked around the group. "Please? I just want to protect him!"

"Isn't that what started all of this?" Teagan asked her accusingly. "You hired the mage to teach Connor in secret to protect him."

"If they discovered Connor had magic, then... they'd take him away!" She was frightened—not only of the horrors that had happened of late, but especially of the idea of her son being taken from her, that much was clear.

"So you hired an apostate to attempt to teach him... and you see how this has failed you. He would have destroyed the village... and nearly made me kill Lady Cousland!"

Isolde glanced at Myranda. "I-I thought if he learned just enough to hide it, then..."

"Where is Connor now?" Myranda interrupted, seeing how close the arlessa was to breaking down into helpless tears and wanting to save her that disgrace on top of all else. She had been foolish, but she was at least aware of it. "Why did he run?"

The arlessa looked at her. "Violence... scares him," she explained. "I... I know that sounds strange, but he is still just a boy. He may have run up to his room, or..."

"Or he might be waiting in ambush?" Teagan asked.

Isolde shook her head. "I don't know. The fighting may have scared Connor into... coming out again, and so he ran."

"So he may be vulnerable?" Leliana cut in.

"I..." Isolde sighed heavily, in defeat and resignation of her total ignorance of the situation. "Perhaps." She looked around at Myranda and her companions. "Is there... is there no other way?" she asked softly, as if afraid to hear the answer.

"Where is Arl Eamon?" Myranda asked.

"Is he all right?" Alistair added.

"He is upstairs, in his room," Isolde said. "I think the demon has been keeping him alive."

Teagan stared at her. "So," he began slowly, "if we destroy the demon, then...?"

She lowered her light brown eyes. "Then my husband may perish, yes."

"So what are our options?" Myranda asked.

"I wouldn't normally suggest slaying a child," Alistair said softly, "but... he's an abomination." His regret and resignation were clear in his voice. "I'm not sure there's any choice."

"We can't kill a young boy," Leliana cried, "demon or no demon!" She looked at Myranda. "Please don't say we're considering that!"

"Connor is my nephew," Teagan said before sighing slightly. When he continued, his voice was heavy with regret. "But... he is also possessed by a demon. Death would be... merciful."

"No!" Isolde breathed, tears slipping down her cheeks. She shook her head before looking around desperately. "What... what about the mage? He could know something of this demon! If he still lives, we could speak to him!"

"He's still alive," Myranda said. "He's down in the dungeon where you left him."

"Then we should bring him here immediately," the arlessa said. "I... I do not know how much we can trust him, but we must find out what he knows." She looked at her brother-in-law. "Teagan, could you find him?"

Teagan looked unhappy with the idea. "I... will try," he conceded, "though if he resists I will not hesitate to kill him." He turned to head from the room. "I'll return shortly."

"I'll go with you," Alistair said, falling into step one pace behind the older man. "Just in case."

The two returned some time later, escorting the mage, who was completely encircled by some of Ser Perth's men. Isolde looked up from her private conversation with Myranda and Leliana and narrowed her light brown eyes dangerously.

"You're lucky to be alive, Jowan," she said coldly, "after all you've done."

"I didn't summon any demon, Lady Isolde," he whined before a heavy sigh escaped him. "But I _did_ poison the arl, and that started all this. I'm... willing to help, if you'll let me."

"That's the whole reason why you're here," Myranda said. "So speak quickly, lest you want me to follow through on my friend's earlier idea." She waved toward Sten.

Jowan paled again before turning to Isolde and Teagan. "The demon in Connor needs to be destroyed. Killing Connor is... the easiest way to do that, certainly..." he hesitated, then continued, "but there is another way. A mage could confront the demon in the Fade, without hurting Connor himself."

"What do you mean?" Teagan asked. "Is the demon not within Connor?"

"Not physically. The demon approached Connor in the Fade while he dreamt, and controls him from there. We can use the connection between them to find the demon."

"You can enter the Fade, then?" Isolde asked hopefully. "And kill the demon? Without hurting my boy?"

Jowan shook his head. "No, but I can enable another mage to do so. It normally requires lyrium and... and several mages, but I..." his voice trailed off and he glanced uncertainly at Alistair and Myranda. "I have... blood magic."

"And what difference does that make?" Myranda asked.

"Lyrium provides the power for the ritual," Jowan said, "but I can take that power from someone's life energy." He hesitated. "This ritual requires a lot of it, however... all of it, in fact."

"So someone must die?" Teagan asked. "Someone must be sacrificed?"

The mage nodded. "Yes, and then we send another mage into the Fade. I can't enter because I'm doing the ritual." He glanced back at Myranda, whose face had darkened dangerously. "Maybe I shouldn't have said anything," he said, taking a step away from her. "It's... not much of an option."

"No," the blonde woman agreed. "It's not an option at all."

Jowan sighed a little. "I... I understand," he said. "I just..."

"I disagree," Isolde said, her voice ringing with her resolve. "I think we should do it. Let it be my blood. I will be the sacrifice."

"What?" Teagan cried. "Isolde, are you mad?! Eamon would never allow this!"

She looked back at him determinedly. "Either someone kills my son to destroy that... _thing_ inside him, or I give my life so my son can live." She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin slightly. "To me, the answer is clear."

Myranda lowered her eyes to the floor, the memory of a voice whispering viciously in her mind. _"If we can't find your father, you_ must _get out of here alive. Without you and Fergus, the entire Cousland line dies here."_

"Blood magic!" Alistair said in disgust. "How can more evil be of any help here? Two wrongs don't make a right!"

Myranda closed her eyes against the voice that continued to taunt her. _"Myranda, go with Duncan. You have a better chance to escape without me."_

"It does seem like a sensible choice," Morrigan replied reasonably, "with a willing participant."

_"My place is with your father. At his side, to death and beyond."_

"Connor is blameless in this," Isolde said. "He should not have to pay the price."

 _"Goodbye, darling."_ " _No_!" Myranda yelled suddenly, startling everyone present. "I will not stand by and allow a child to lose his mother through senseless murder!" She stormed up to the arlessa, who cowered away from her. "Do you hear me?" she demanded. "I will _not_ allow it!"

"Myranda," Alistair said, placing his hand on her shoulder and pulling her gently away from the frightened arlessa. "Easy, Myranda."

"It... It's up to you, my friend," Teagan said hesitantly. "You know more about such things than I do, and it's your companion going into the Fade. The decision is yours."

Myranda took a deep, calming breath, placing her hand over Alistair's and squeezing it gently before allowing him to pull away. "There must be another way to enter the Fade," she said.

"You can find lyrium and more mages at the Circle of Magi," Alistair said. "If they would even do it."

She turned and looked at him. "The Circle tower is not far from here," she said. "And one of the Grey Warden treaties is with the Circle... we'd need to go there anyway."

He blinked in slight surprise. " _That_ is an excellent point."

"The tower is about a week's journey around the lake," Teagan said. "You could attempt to get the mages' help."

Isolde looked worried. "But what will happen here?" she asked. "Connor will not remain passive forever!"

"I will take that chance," Myranda told her.

"Very well," Teagan said, nodding. "I will keep Jowan here as a precaution. He says he wants to help, so he will keep an eye on Connor with us."

Jowan breathed a soft sigh of relief that his life would be spared for a while longer. His peace of mind was short lived, however, as he suddenly found himself grabbed by the throat and slammed back against the stones of the massive fireplace. Stars danced before his eyes from the impact and he managed to blink them away as the grip on his throat tightened. He stared into the Grey Warden's hard, cold green eyes and felt his fear returning tenfold.

"If I return to find this place a graveyard," Myranda said, her words for the mage's ears alone, "I will make you wish that I had killed you on sight. I will make you suffer for all the wrongs done here, and you will _beg_ me to turn you over to the templars before I'm finished with you." She leaned forward until they were almost nose-to-nose. "Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

Jowan gulped. It was all he could do: fear froze all words in his throat. He didn't have to wonder if she would follow through with the threats... he saw the truth reflected in her eyes. Anything the templars would do to him would be merciful compared to what this woman was prepared to do.

She placed the tip of her knife against his throat as her grip tightened. "Do I make myself clear?" she repeated, this time with a layer of steel in her voice.

"Y-Yes, my lady," the mage squeaked, fighting the blackness that started to creep into the sides of his vision. "Very clear. I won't let anything happen. I swear."

Satisfied that he was sufficiently intimidated, she pushed herself away, turning to her companions as Jowan collapsed to the floor coughing. "We're leaving," she said, sheathing her knife. "Now."

"Go to the tower quickly then," Teagan said. "The longer you are away, the greater the chances of disaster."

"I will not fail," Myranda told him, not pausing as she headed toward the door, the others trailing after her.


	13. Falling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party travels toward the Circle Tower... and things begin to change between Myranda and Alistair.

**Chapter 13: Falling**

_"It is difficult to know at what moment love begins; it is less difficult to know that it has begun." ~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_

 

"Don't make camp," Myranda ordered. "We're not stopping."

"What?!" Leliana cried. "You can't be serious!"

"We will rest here for a short while, then we move on. We have to get to the tower."

"But Myranda...!" the bard tried again as Baby whined. She was cut off by the Grey Warden's cold green eyes.

"I'm going to scout the road ahead. I'll be back in ten minutes... then we move." She abruptly turned then and continued down the road.

Leliana looked at Alistair, wondering if she was the only one who thought the blonde woman had gone mad.

"I'll go talk to her," he said. "Go ahead and start setting camp. I'll be right back." He trotted after her, though the trot turned into a jog when he realized she was continuing the hurried pace she had kept since leaving Redcliffe. "Myranda," he called, but she didn't stop. She didn't even slow down... it was as if she hadn't even heard him. "Myranda, stop," he said, grabbing her arm and pulling her to a stop.

She looked up at him, her eyes glittering with malice. "How dare you!"

"We have to stop," he told her. "We can't keep up with your pace."

"Fine. Then I'll go alone. I'll make better time without the tag-alongs, anyway."

"I can't let you do that," he said, blocking her path.

She glared at him. "Get out of my way," she ordered.

The steely edge to her voice held a vicious promise, and though he quailed at the malevolence in her eyes, he didn't back down. "Myranda, you're exhausted. We're all exhausted. We need to make camp tonight so we can rest."

"Have you forgotten that a child's life is in danger?" she demanded.

"No, of course not."

"Then, for the last time, get out of my way."

"No, I'm not going to let you run yourself ragged."

Myranda sniffed with contempt. "So the bastard prince is giving orders now?" she sneered.

Alistair took a slight step back, stung by this remark.

A cruel smile crossed her face. "That's what I thought," she said haughtily. "Now, if you'll excuse me, your _Highness_..."

She started to step around him, but he moved to block her path again, his concern for her and her welfare suddenly trumping the hurt from her callous dismissal. "No."

"Why you...!"

"You can't keep up this pace," he interrupted. "You haven't slept in thirty-six hours... you need to rest." He put his hands on her shoulders. "I'm worried about Connor, too," he said gently, "but you'll do him no favors if you kill yourself before you can help him."

Myranda's emerald eyes snapped with fury as she stared at him. How _dare_ he stand in her way! What difference did it make that she couldn't remember when she last slept? She had gone longer than this without sleep before! She would not give in to his adorable puppy-dog eyes... not this time. They didn't have much time, and she was wasting more of it arguing with him. He just didn't understand!

_'Myranda, you're exhausted... you'll do him no favors if you kill yourself before you can help him.'_

Yes, he did. He was right. Maker damn him, he was right. She felt her anger diminishing and closed her eyes, suddenly feeling tired all the way to her bones. Her skull ached. Her body was much too heavy. Her knees trembled with the effort of keeping her upright, and she would have collapsed at his feet if not for his hands on her shoulders. Her head slumped forward and she sighed, deeply and heavily, feeling even more of her energy draining from her. "All right," she murmured.

 

Leliana looked up when Alistair returned to camp, surprised to see a downtrodden Myranda with him. She hadn't thought the blonde woman would be able to see reason, but he had done the impossible. She watched as he led the other Grey Warden over to the fire and gently pushed her to the ground to sit, holding up a hand when she looked up at him. "Is she all right?" she asked him as he walked over.

"Yes, I think so." He looked back over toward the fire and the woman sitting by it. "She's just tired... maybe more than the rest of us. I noticed it this morning when we were walking to the mill: the stress from commanding the battle was straining her. She said she was fine, but I could tell she wasn't. She was looking grey and exhausted even then. But once she gets some sleep I'm sure she'll be all right." He looked back at the bard to find her giving him a strange look... a peculiar half-smile. "What?"

"Oh... nothing, nothing." She grinned before turning toward her tent. "Good night, Alistair."

"Good night." He was still confused by the look Leliana had given him. It was as if she had just learned a secret... though what that was he couldn't begin to imagine. He looked toward the fire again to find Myranda had laid down next to it, and, from the peaceful expression on her face, she had apparently fallen asleep there. He couldn't help the soft smile that crossed his lips. There'd be no point in waking her. She'd be fine by the fire tonight. He yawned hugely and made his way to his own tent, knowing he'd probably fall asleep before his head hit the pillow.

 

 

_[Kingsway 10]_

Myranda winced as she woke, feeling stiff all over. She didn't know if she'd ever get used to sleeping on the ground. She opened her eyes and was surprised to find herself next to the smoldering fire and not in her tent. What was she doing here? Then she remembered: Alistair had suggested she sit by the fire for a little while, and she had decided she would lay down for just a few minutes before getting up to pitch her tent. Apparently she had needed the "few minutes" more than she'd realized.

She sat up and stretched, groaning as her joints popped in a few places, slightly easing some of the tension in her muscles.

"Good morning, Myranda," Leliana said softly.

"Good morning," she replied.

"Are you feeling better this morning?"

"Aside from some stiff joints...." She sighed a little. "I... I'm sorry I was a bit overbearing last night."

The redhead smiled a little. "I understand. I have to tell you, though, I was quite surprised that Alistair was able to convince you to see reason."

Myranda looked up at her, frowning as the rest of her memories came back. "Have you seen Alistair this morning?"

"He was headed toward the lake the last time I saw him."

She looked in the direction Leliana indicated before nodding. "Thank you. I need to talk to him... then we should get underway."

"Right," the bard agreed.

Myranda got up and brushed the dirt from her armor—she hadn't even been able to change, she had been so tired—and walked nervously toward the lake. The memory of how cruel she had been haunted her, and she was certain that he'd never forgive her. But she had to try.

She found him kneeling on the shore of the lake, replacing the cap to his canteen, and took a deep breath before speaking. "Alistair?"

He looked up at her and found that she immediately looked away, as if she didn't dare meet his eyes.

"I... I owe you an apology," she said. "There's no excuse for the way I acted last night. And I said a great many things that were unnecessarily cruel. I regret it and I'm sorry." She lowered her head. "I know I don't deserve it, but I hope you'll forgive me."

"It's all right, Myranda," he said with a slight smile as he stood to face her. "None of us were really thinking clearly last night. The last two days have been really stressful."

"And you were right. I was... I'm just worried about Connor."

"No harm done."

"No. That's not true." She looked up at him, frowning. "What I said was hurtful and hateful, after you've been nothing but supportive. I had no right to say what I did. You've been a good friend to me, and I should never have..."

"Myranda," Alistair interrupted, placing a hand on her shoulder, "it's all right."

She stared at him for a few moments before her emerald eyes softened and she smiled a little. Suddenly the sun seemed to shine brighter, glinting in her blonde hair and making it sparkle like gold. The warmth of her smile took the very chill from the air and made everything in the world seem better. It was in that moment that the strange falling sensation swept over him again, making him feel slightly dizzy.

"Thank you," she said softly. "And I'll try to be more reasonable in the future."

He stared at her, wondering why he felt like he'd never seen her before. "I..." he stopped and swallowed, his throat inexplicably dry, his lungs tight from sudden lack of air. "You're welcome."

She looked away, biting her lip slightly. "Well... I... guess we should get going."

He lowered his eyes to her mouth, watching her teeth worry the soft flesh with a strange feeling of fascination. "Uh... yeah. I... guess so." He tore his eyes away from the sight only to catch her green ones, stumbling and falling into them.

They stared at each other for several long moments before Alistair suddenly remembered the hand on her shoulder... so close to her face. He pulled his hand away and managed a small smile. "Well, then... shall we?"

 

 

_[Kingsway 10 – Evening]_

"Morrigan?"

The young witch looked up to see Myranda standing just beyond the circle of light from her fire, a worried look on her face. "What do you wish of me?"

"I'd... like to ask you something."

Morrigan shrugged. "If you must," she said, turning back to her cooking pot.

"Is there anything that can be done for a possessed mage?"

"'Tis the child abomination you speak of, from the haunted castle?" She looked up to see the blonde woman's nod and continued. "If what you seek is to remove the demon from the child without harming the child, there is a way indeed."

"Really?" Myranda felt an immediate wave of relief.

"What the boy mage said is so: there is a connection between the child and the demon," Morrigan explained, "one which can be followed to the demon's true form within the Fade. There the demon can be battled directly."

"That sounds fairly straight-forward."

"Only a mage may enter the Fade. It requires lyrium and a group of mages to cast the ritual... neither of which we have, yes?"

"Not yet."

"Regardless, it would still fall on one mage alone to defeat the demon. No simple task, but there you have it."

"But it's possible. That's all I needed to know." She managed a small smile. "Thank you, Morrigan."

 

 

_[Kingsway 12]_

"What is the purpose of this errand?"

Myranda sighed, feeling she must have explained this a hundred times to the qunari. "We are going to the Circle tower to retrieve help for the boy at Redcliffe."

"What has this to do with the threat of the darkspawn?"

"For the last time, the mages have an agreement with the Grey Wardens to help us in times of crisis."

Sten grabbed her by the arm then, hard. Though it hurt, she only drew a sharp breath, knowing it to be a test.

"The Blight," he said. "How will you end it?"

"We have to fight the archdemon," she said through gritted teeth.

"Is that all?" he asked incredulously. "It is surrounded by an ocean of darkspawn. How will you reach it? If you reach it, how will you slay it?"

She shook her arm free of his grasp. "I do not have to explain myself or my plans to you."

"Perhaps you have no plan." He sneered at her. "You say you are a Grey Warden. I have heard stories of this order."

"And what, pray tell, have you heard?"

"Great strategists and peerless warriors. That is what we hear of the Wardens." He looked her over with disdain. "So far I am not impressed."

"I am not here to impress you," she said acidly.

"Evidently not," came the stoic reply. "It remains only to see what you _are_ here for."

Myranda sneered and turned away from him, continuing down the road. A half-mile later the road widened suddenly and she stopped, looking around warily. "Do you see them?" she asked Leliana as she walked up to stand beside her.

"Yes," she said. "There must be thirty at least!"

"What?" Alistair asked. "What is it?"

"Traps," Myranda said.

"And trouble!"

Myranda looked up to see a pack of hungry-looking wolves had appeared on the other side of the field. "Be careful," she warned, drawing her blades. "Step only where I do," she said to Alistair.

"I'll try."

He succeeded for the most part, tripping only two of the traps during the short battle. With the last two wolves distracted by Baby and Sten, Myranda set to work disarming the rest of the traps to give them a clear pathway.

As the third trap disarmed with a loud, satisfying click and she looked up only to find one of the wolves leaping toward her, mouth open, ready to tear out her throat. She could manage nothing except to throw up her arm, screaming with pain as the beast's fangs sank into the flesh of her upper arm.

"Myranda!"

She pulled her knife and spun it in her hand before driving it into the wolf's side and slicing across its belly, neatly gutting it. The animal stiffened, its teeth plunging deeper into her arm before its hold loosened and it fell to the ground. She dropped the knife then and clutched her arm tightly, feeling the blood oozing between her fingers.

Baby whined at her as he sniffed her arm.

"Myranda, are you all right?" Alistair asked.

"I think so. I don't think the bone's broken." She carefully removed her hand from the wound before clamping it back over it as the pain seared through it. "It's deep."

"Here," Leliana said, "I have some elfroot." She pulled the herb from her pack. "This will help until we can make a proper poultice." She pulled off a few of the leaves and laid them over the bite, being careful not to touch the blood. She wrapped the entirety with a short bandage. "That should last until we make camp in a few hours."

"Thank you." Myranda stood and tested the arm gingerly as she looked around. "Well, I'd say we're having wolf for dinner. No use in letting all this meat go to waste."

They picked out three of the wolves and tied them together to take with them before returning their steps northward. On their way out of the area, Myranda pointedly ignored the two overgrown signs by the side of the road, the first warning that wolves frequented the area and the other warning about the traps that had been laid for them. She was quite certain that there had been no such signs on the other side of the road.

They traveled approximately another four miles before stopping, feasting on the wolf meat. After supper, Myranda set to changing the dressing around her wounded arm. She rinsed the majority of the blood away by the lake before returning to camp and mixing up the elfroot poultice and applying it, feeling it start to soothe the aching wound immediately. She fished a long bandage from her pack then and started to wrap the wound, holding one end of the bandage in her teeth while wrapping the other awkwardly around her upper arm.

Alistair watched her stubborn attempts for a few moments before sighing and walking over to her. "Here," he said, kneeling next to her and taking the bandage from her. "Let me."

She looked up and gave him a chagrined look. "Thank you," she said, taking the end of the wrap from her mouth and holding out her arm. "I think I managed to clean it sufficiently, I just can't seem to get the bandage tight enough." She shook her head a little. "Damned wolves... I can't believe I let myself get bitten like that."

"You were distracted by the trap you were disarming, so I think it can be forgiven," he said, unwrapping her attempt. "I'm glad it was just your arm and not your throat." He turned her arm slightly then to examine the bite by the firelight. He seemed satisfied with what he saw—though his brow furrowed at the bruising caused by Sten's fingers—as he fixed the poultice and replaced the wrap over the wound. "Hold that," he murmured, handing her the short end of the cloth before winding the bandage around her arm, tight enough to staunch the blood flow, but not enough to cut off the circulation to the rest of her arm.

Myranda watched him as he worked, entranced. The flickering light from the fire danced with the shadows across his handsome face, adding a mystique she'd never noticed before and suddenly found very attractive. He touched her as little as possible—not out of revulsion, she knew... she had seen how he looked at her when he thought she didn't notice—and when he did, it was only with his fingertips. But the lack of contact seemed to heighten her awareness and anticipation, so that when his fingers did brush against her skin, she was instantly conscious of it. The slightest touch caused a pleasant warmth to rush through her, the skin tingling at the contact point. She let her head tilt slightly to the side. It was a most curious thing.

He must have felt her eyes on him, because he looked up at her then. Their eyes met and something passed between them, a shock of something like lightning that made everything and everyone around them begin to disappear. She looked away, biting her bottom lip in embarrassment. What was wrong with her? What was this strange sensation that was causing her heart to pound and her blood to rush through her veins and her throat to tighten? It couldn't be love. It _couldn't_ be. She'd been in love before, with Rory, and what she'd felt then was nothing like what she was feeling now.

This was different in every possible way: deeper, hotter, and stronger.

A shock leaped up her arm as their fingertips suddenly touched, causing her to gasp sharply as she looked back over at him. He glanced up at her, but lowered his eyes again quickly in embarrassment, pulling the end of the bandage from her fingers.

"Is that too tight?" he asked softly as he tied it off.

"Yes." She shook her head when he lifted his eyes again, clearing her tight and suddenly dry throat awkwardly. "I mean, no. No, it's fine." She smiled at him. "Thank you."

He smiled a little at her. "My pleasure," he murmured. He reached down and took her hand, brushing a brief and gentle kiss against her fingers before releasing her hand again and standing to retreat to his tent.

Myranda watched him, cradling the hand he had kissed against her chest as her heart fluttered about like a butterfly in a garden. She shook herself mentally and glared at the fire, dropping her hands to her lap. What in Andraste's name was the _matter_ with her? Why was she acting this way? She felt like a complete fool, and there was absolutely no reason for it. She was fond of him; she would admit that. She liked him... and apparently since their conversation above the waterfall at Redcliffe he'd taken more of an interest in her as well.

But that was no reason for his mere presence to make her dizzy. The simple touch of his hand should not cause her blood to race hotly through her veins. And she certainly shouldn't be having erotic dreams and imaginings about him! The sudden increase in the frequency of those was leaning on the awkward side of ridiculous.

She looked down at her hand. Still.... How incredibly sweet and chivalrous of him to kiss her hand like that. How pure and delightful. It had been a chaste act, yet there was the possibility of _so_ much more. She shook her head and sighed. No. They had more important things to worry about. They had a Blight to stop and an archdemon to kill. Besides, he had no experience with... not that she couldn't _teach_ him.... _No!_ It was best not to pursue those thoughts. Such thinking only led to problematic imaginings. And they would only get worse if she allowed her mind to linger on the fact that his lips had felt incredibly soft against her skin.

She shook her head again—harder this time. It had been a long and trying day. There was no other reason that she would be thinking this way.

She suddenly felt eyes on her and looked up to see Sten watching her, looking impassively puzzled. "You're staring at me."

"I don't understand," the qunari said. "You look like a woman."

"That's because I _am_ a woman," she replied.

"You are a Grey Warden. So it follows that you can't be a woman."

Myranda blinked, surprised and confused by this explanation. "That... that doesn't make any sense, Sten."

"So you understand my confusion, then."

"Not precisely, no," she said, shaking her head.

"Women are priests, artisans, shopkeepers, or farmers," Sten said. "They don't fight."

"That's not a universal truth," Myranda countered. "Some women fight. I do. My own mother did. Leliana does. Morrigan does."

"Why would women ever wish to be men? That makes no sense."

"We _don't_ wish to be men." She watched as he gave her a slightly incredulous look, staring at him through narrowed eyes as she tried to sort out his logic in her own mind. "You think we can't be women, because women don't fight?"

"Exactly."

The blonde shook her head. "We're going around in circles here."

"I don't know what to make of you. Perhaps this is a quality of Grey Wardens I had not heard about."

"Well, I don't know what to make of _you_ , either. Your logic makes no sense."

"A person is born: qunari, or human, or elven, or dwarf. He doesn't choose that. The size of his hands, whether he is clever or foolish, the land he comes from, the color of his hair: these are beyond his control. We do not choose, we simply are."

"But a person can choose what to do. A child born into poverty can become a wealthy merchant. A commoner can become a king."

Sten's eyebrow twitched upward fractionally. "Can they? We'll see."

 _'A commoner can become a king.'_ The sentence came back to chase itself around in Myranda's mind, along with an image of Alistair in the official robes and crown of state. It was a nice image, and was followed by a memory of his smile... and of how softly he had kissed her fingers.

She sighed before standing and heading to her tent. She would think no more of Alistair and his boyish good looks tonight... unless the spirits of the Fade had other ideas. They often did these days.

 

 

_[Kingsway 13]_

Alistair sat by the fire, staring into the flames as he puzzled over his feelings about Myranda. She was a good friend, but he wondered if that was starting to change. Could it be that he was...? He shook his head. No. No, that was ridiculous. It didn't even bear thinking about it. She was a friend, that was all... just like Leliana was only a friend. He'd never really taken any particular notice to how Leliana looked, never noticed how she moved. He noticed the sound of her voice… but then, how could he not? The redhead had a gift for talking. But she was just a traveling companion, nothing more. He'd never taken any other interest in her.

Myranda, on the other hand....

There was a subtlety to Myranda that he found fascinating. Her cool, aloof exterior had confused him when they'd met, especially since he could tell that she was hiding behind it. He'd wondered then if he couldn't draw her out, and had unconsciously decided to try. Every smile became a small victory... and then she had laughed, and he had realized all of a sudden that he'd never heard it before that time. And when she'd told him that she'd never thought to laugh ever again, it had pleased him to no end that he had helped her recover it. It was a really nice laugh, one he tried to provoke every chance he got. And certainly he'd noticed how pretty she was on first meeting her in Ostagar... but who could miss _that_? He suddenly remembered a distinct and piercing disappointment he'd felt when he thought that she was married, followed by immense relief when he found out she wasn't. And, of course, there was that night after her bath when she'd looked so incredibly beautiful with her hair falling in a golden waterfall around her, wearing the silk gown that had gently hugged her curves in a way that made his brain falter to just remember. And there was the night she'd stumbled out of her tent wearing only her undershirt, giving him an excellent view of her long, shapely legs. Remembering it now, he thought about the creaminess of her skin and suddenly found himself wondering if it was really as soft and smooth as it looked.

He shook his head again, trying to dislodge the thoughts. No, no! He wasn't supposed to think of her like that! She was his Sister Grey Warden, for Andraste's sake! Sister, sister, _sister_!

He sighed. Repeating the word only made him feel even more guilty. And dirty. He'd have to try to stop whatever it was that was coming over him. Maker help him, he didn't even know what was _happening_ to him! He'd never felt this way before... never found himself wondering about a woman the way he'd suddenly started thinking about Myranda. And it made no sense! She was his friend... why was he starting to feel so strange now? He'd never felt so uncomfortable in her presence—not since they had left Lothering, anyway.

But he'd never noticed before their talk on that ridge in Redcliffe just how beautiful she was. He'd never really noticed how her eyes sparkled in the light or the soft curve of her face. He'd never paid attention to the warmth in his heart when she smiled, or how he felt happier when she was laughing. It was strange how he'd noticed all of these things all of a sudden... and it would be all right if the noticing didn't confuse him so much.

She walked back into camp then, and he found his eyes were immediately drawn to her. She looked so tired as she brought her hand up to her eyes, her shoulders drooping with an air of hopelessness and defeat. She said something to Leliana before yawning, her hand lowering from her eyes to her mouth. She turned toward him then, and he managed to tear his eyes away before she noticed him staring.

"Good night, Alistair," she murmured as she passed.

"Good night," he replied, suppressing the delightful shiver that threatened to race down his spine at the way she said his name. He listened as her footsteps stopped, hesitated for a few moments, then continued. He sighed softly before standing and retreating to his own tent and sleep, hoping against hope that the... awkward... dreams he'd started to have would not haunt him again.

 

 

_[Kingsway 14-15]_

Myranda was spreading out her bedroll by the fire when she looked up suddenly, holding out her hand. "It's starting to rain," she noted. "We may need a tent after all."

"Is it?" Alistair looked up only to have a raindrop fall into his eye. "Yeah," he said, lowering his head and blinking away the rain, "I guess so."

The other Grey Warden laughed as she pulled her tent from her pack, her laughter turning into a shriek of surprise as the rain suddenly began to pour down. Alistair managed to duck under the canvas before he got completely soaked, holding up the right side. They looked at each other and laughed as Baby ran under the tent with them, barking and shaking the water from his fur.

"Baby!" Myranda cried around her laughter.

"Well," Alistair said, "it's like they say: 'Into each life a little rain must fall.'" He paused, watching the rain. "I don't think this is what they meant, though."

"I should say not." They managed to sit together on the bedroll without too much trouble. Myranda sighed a little then, holding up her side of the canvas and listening to the rain sizzle in the fire. "Well, this rather puts a damper on things, doesn't it?"

"Who knew we'd end up sharing a tent tonight?"

"Or that you'd be so eager to do so."

"Well I wasn't about to stay out in the rain," he retorted, looking over at her. Only then did he see the mischievous grin on her lips and realized the unintentional double meaning behind his original remark. "Oh, I... I didn't mean..." he trailed off in embarrassment when she started to laugh.

"Oh, relax," she said. "I'm just teasing."

They sat together for a while in comfortable silence, listening to and watching the rain. Alistair could feel someone watching him, though, and he looked over to find Myranda staring at him, her head tilted slightly to one side and her finger on her lips as if she was studying him. "Yes?" he asked with a grin, casually lingering on the word.

She smiled then. "Has anyone ever told you how handsome you are?"

"Not unless they were asking me for a favor...." he said, slightly wary. He thought for a moment, then continued. "Well, there was that one time in Denerim, but those women were..." he looked at her and blinked before looking away suddenly "...not like you."

Myranda wrinkled her nose in a silent laugh. He really was cute when he blushed.

"Why?" he asked, grinning as he looked back at her. "Is this your way of telling me _you_ think I'm handsome?"

"You _know_ you're handsome, Alistair," she coyly replied, nudging him gently in the ribs.

"Maybe," he said slowly, picking up on her teasing. "It doesn't hurt to have a pretty girl say that, though. Beats being run through with a sword any day!"

"Well I would certainly _hope_ so," was her imperious reply.

"So... is this the part where I get to say the same?"

She batted her eyelashes flirtatiously. "That would be nice...."

"Oh! Well, I'll think about it then," he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Sometime soon, I'm sure."

Myranda looked at him, pretending to be affronted. "Oh, you!" Her act broke down then into good-natured laughter. "You're terrible!"

He grinned, reveling in the sound of her laughing. He was somewhat surprised at himself that his brain hadn't shut down completely when she had looked at him and batted her eyelashes—though remembering it made his head swim slightly.

"I suppose that's payback for teasing you about sharing a tent with me."

"Payback?" he said with sarcastic surprise, sending her into another fit of giggles. "Would I do that?"

"Yes, I do believe you would." She grinned. "Although," she began slowly, "if I said I was enjoying sharing a tent with you," she went on before looking over at him, her eyes sparkling, "would you hold it against me?"

He grinned back at her. "Not at all, my lady." He looked around as she laughed softly. "Although, when I think of sharing a tent, this isn't... _quite_ the first thing I picture."

"Me neither. Different from the... strange... dreams I've been having recently."

"Are you having strange dreams?" he asked, looking at her concernedly.

She smirked at him. "Only ones where we're making mad love in my tent," she teased.

Alistair felt the blush creeping up his face and looked at the tent— _her_ tent—that they held over them. "Oh." He couldn't tell if she was teasing or telling the truth... and, strangely, found a corner of his mind hoping it was the latter.

Myranda giggled. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't embarrass you when you can't escape." She lowered her arm briefly to ease the fatiguing muscles before straightening it again. "I think we should do something about the tent, though. I don't think the rain's going to let up any time soon."

"I think we can fix it. Hold this for a minute."

She took his corner of the tent and watched as he dug through the packs under Baby, coming up with two of the center poles. He took his corner back, fixing it to one of the poles before handing her the other to fix. It took next to no time, though she winced as a slight spasm shot through her right arm. She glanced at Alistair out of the corner of her eye, hoping he hadn't noticed.

He had. "How's your arm?"

"Oh, it's fine. I mean, it still hurts, but it's only been two days. I'm sure it'll stop hurting in another day or two." She looked at him to find him looking at her in quiet disapproval, and sighed heavily. "Oh, fine."

She rolled up her sleeve and unwrapped the old bandage as he dug in her pack for the elfroot poultice. She gingerly pulled off the old dressing, gritting her teeth as some of the newly-forming skin pulled away with it, causing the wound to bleed anew. She wrapped the old bandage around her hand and held it out under the rain for a minute, soaking it through before she squeezed the water out slowly over the gashes to rinse away the blood. "How does it look?" she asked as Alistair tenderly took her arm, dutifully ignoring the shocks running through her system. "I can't see well enough."

"Better than yesterday," he said as he changed the dressing, handing her the short end of the bandage before wrapping her arm back up. He tied the bandage neatly before relinquishing her arm back to her.

"Thanks."

"No problem." He looked at her. "Hungry?"

"You have to ask?"

He grinned and dug back through his pack, pulling out a large package that was wrapped in parchment. "This should help," he said, unwrapping it to reveal a small, thin wheel of white cheese that was riddled with blue veins.

Myranda looked at it and grinned. "Do you always keep cheese squirreled away in your pack?" she asked him.

"This isn't just cheese," he said. "This is Redcliffe Bleu! This is the best blue cheese you can get outside of Orlais!"

She laughed. "You weren't kidding about that unholy love of fine cheeses, were you?" She took the piece he offered her and popped it into her mouth, her eyes widening as it melted in her mouth and sent her salivary glands into a near-painful overload. She winced, massaging her jaw to ease the slight ache as she swallowed. "Oh, Maker," she said.

"Hm." Alistair sounded disappointed. "It's not as good as it usually is. I guess the chaos has affected production."

Myranda stared at him in amazement. "That was the best blue cheese I've ever had," she said, "and you're telling me it's an _off_ wheel?"

"Well... usually it's a little better."

"Unbelievable," she muttered, shaking her head as a smile crept up her lips.

They munched on the small wheel, and Myranda found herself unable to stop smiling. She just felt so... content... and happy. The sound of the rain pelting on the canvas over their heads and the relaxing atmosphere from their easy camaraderie just made the world a little less dark.

"You're smiling," Alistair noted with a grin. "Should I be worried you're up to something?"

She looked at him. "I always smile when I'm with you." She looked away and laughed a little in embarrassment. "Oh, that sounds so corny."

"Or cheesy?" he teased, offering her another piece of the excellent blue.

"You're making fun of me again," she accused gently, accepting the cheese.

"Perish the thought, dear lady!"

They ate nearly half the wheel before Myranda couldn't eat any more. She watched as Alistair rewrapped what was left and tucked it away again, debating the question on her mind. "A little taste of home for you, that cheese," she noted.

He smiled a little. "In a way, I suppose. I can't say I had very much of it as a child."

"Still." She paused, then went on hesitantly. "Did you ever meet Maric?"

"I... met him once. He and Cailan had come to Redcliffe to visit the arl." He shrugged. "I was very young then. And it was... rather forgettable, really."

"I don't suppose you and Cailan ever spoke, either."

"No," he said flatly, "we never spoke. Well... maybe once. When he and Maric came to Redcliffe, we were introduced. I believe I said, 'Greetings, your Highness.' He said, 'Ooh! Swords!' and ran off to the armory." He shook his head as Myranda shot him a painful smile. "I don't think he cared much about my existence. I didn't mean anything to him." He sighed. "I don't think I meant much to Maric, either."

"I don't know," Myranda said slowly. "Of course it's hard to say one way or another, but he didn't strike me as the type to not care about a child."

"Did you meet him?" he asked, looking at her.

She nodded. "There was some talk when I was a child about betrothing me to Cailan."

Alistair felt a sharp pang of alarm, and that same strange annoyance he'd felt when she was talking to Teagan shot through him again. To think she could have been Queen of Ferelden... his half-brother's wife! But for some reason it was the latter of the two suppositions that bothered him more.

"I liked the idea at first," Myranda went on, "but when they finally arrived, I was so scared that I hid every chance I had—I was only six, after all. Fergus helped... he would distract Cailan with mock-battles and swords. I'm not sure he even remembered me most of the time he was there. I never cared much for Cailan, even from the few interactions I had." She looked up toward the dark sky. "Maric, though..." she continued slowly. "Maric was another matter." She looked back at him. "But you probably don't care to hear about him."

"I don't mind," he said, intrigued by the softness of her voice when she'd mentioned his father. "I... I think I'd like to know your impression of him."

She smiled a little and looked at the ground in front of her. "From what I remember of him," she began softly, "he was a good man. Kind and gentle at his heart, with the grace and poise of a warrior. He had a wonderful sense of humor and the willingness to use it." She looked over at him. "Now that I think of it, there are times when you remind me very much of him."

Alistair shot her a wary look. "Is that a good thing?"

"A very good thing. I was fond of Maric, in the way of a young child... although I was terrified of him when we first met."

"Why?"

"The whole week before he and Cailan arrived, my parents would constantly remind me that when his Majesty arrived, I would have to stand up very straight, not fidget, not to speak unless spoken to lest I offend, curtsy often, say 'Yes, your Highness' and 'No, your Majesty' if asked a question..." she let her voice trail off as she shook her head. "It's no wonder I was so frightened... I had an image of a severe old man who would take my head if I so much as swallowed incorrectly." She smiled a little. "I refused to go when I was summoned to the Hall, but of course I was forced. I was surprised that Maric wasn't the grizzled, evil old man I had pictured, but even so, I was still frightened. I held on to my nanny's skirts so hard I'm surprised she could walk properly. She had to pry my fingers loose to push me in front of her as my father introduced me. Maric bowed so low and greeted me as if I was a visiting princess while I barely managed a curtsy." She laughed a little in embarrassment. "I was so nervous... I called him 'your Magi-ness' instead of 'your Majesty.'"

"'Your Magi-ness'?"

She blushed darkly. "I'm afraid so." She ducked her head a little as he chuckled softly. "I was so horrified when my father corrected me that I almost started to cry, but Maric just laughed about it and told me that I could call him whatever I wanted. I remember he laughed a lot while he was visiting with us... at least, when I was around." She paused for a moment. "Come to think of it, I think he was one of the biggest proponents for the match. I overheard him telling my father that he'd really like it if I married his son... though he wanted it to be up to me.

"It came up again when I was... eight or nine. He took me aside one afternoon and asked me if he could talk to me for a few moments. 'You can tell me the truth,' he told me. 'I'd prefer it if you were honest with me.' That's when he asked me what I thought of Cailan... to which I said that I thought he was, and I quote, 'a decent enough person.' Then he asked, 'What would you think about marrying him someday?'" She smiled and shook her head. "I... must have made a face or something, because he laughed quietly. 'I was afraid of that,' he said. 'Still, I didn't think it would hurt to ask.'" She shook her head again. "I apologized and told him if he wanted me to marry his son that I would do so out of duty to the nation. 'No,' he told me. 'While I respect the Cousland sense of duty... even to do things that are personally distasteful... I won't let you follow me down that road. I admire your spirit, Lady Myranda, and think you will do great things because of it.'"

She lowered her eyes, a soft smile on her lips. "I was pleased beyond words, and may have in that moment developed a deep fondness for him. I won't say I was in love with him—I was only eight—but it was something akin to that. He was such a handsome man, too, so that helped." She looked over at Alistair. "You've inherited much of his good looks," she said with a smile. "Both of his sons did, but you take after him more."

"At least I didn't inherit his indiscretion."

"And thus have left many a broken-hearted maid in your wake." She smiled gently at him. "I'm sure there's been more than one girl who has looked at you with starry eyes. How could they not?"

He looked at her and found a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He wasn't sure he completely believed her... she was probably just saying that to make him feel good. But the thought that maybe _she_ could possibly in some tiny way look at him like that was pleasant enough.

Myranda lowered her eyes briefly before looking back up at him. Would he think that she was one of those starry-eyed girls? What if he did? Should she disabuse him of that idea? Or... was she? Should she wait to see if something more developed? Was that fair... or right?

A soft snore interrupted them then. They looked behind them to find Baby had curled up on their packs and was sleeping soundly.

"Oh, Baby," Myranda murmured with a soft laugh.

Alistair watched her as she petted the mabari a few times before she leaned back to kiss the hound on his furry head. It was a surprisingly domestic scene, and out of nowhere he found a strange question come to mind. "If things had been different..." he began, "if there wasn't a Blight and you weren't a Warden... what do you think you'd be doing right now?"

"Other than sleeping in a real bed, you mean?" she asked, grinning at him.

He laughed a little. "I didn't mean this precise minute."

Myranda thought for a few moments. "I'd probably still be vainly and half-heartedly trying to convince myself that I wasn't in love with Rory," she said finally. "It would also be my turn to fulfill the duty of Fereldan women." She sighed, rather unhappily. "My father and I would probably be in the middle of marriage arrangements."

"You don't want to get married?" he asked.

"Oh, it isn't that," she said. "If I found the right man, I'd happily marry myself to him. I've seen the delight of married couples. I was so... envious of my brother at times."

"Couldn't you have married...?" he let his voice trail off when she shook her head.

"No," she said simply. "I couldn't marry Rory. I'm a Cousland—my father would never have stood for such a match. I'm a candidate fit for royalty... marriage to a lowly knight would not have been tolerated." She sighed a little. "When our relationship was discovered, he told us both we would desist immediately... and my father's word was not one you questioned."

"I'm sorry," he said, though he was only sorry for the pain the conversation caused.

"Oh, it's all right. Things with Rory and I were often... complicated." She paused. "Come to think of it, Father may have been working on a contract with Cailan, as Anora's obviously not been the most fertile queen in Thedas."

There it was again: that bitter, vicious irritation at the very thought of her marrying his half-brother. Where was it coming from? And why was he feeling that way?

"I don't know that he would have divorced her—and it wouldn't have endeared us to the Teyrn of Gwaren—but it would probably be offered." She shrugged. "But marriage was never one of those things I ever thought about overmuch. I just wanted to be free—I've always been thirsty for adventure. Oriana used to tell such stories about her home in Antiva, and I would hang on every word. I'd love to go there... to see the things she mentioned. And Father's stories about Orlais... it must be a wonderful country." She looked over at him. "What about you?"

"I've always wanted..." his voice trailed off and he shook his head.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing. It's stupid."

"Please?" she asked quietly.

He sighed. "A home... a _real_ home. And a family."

"There's nothing stupid about that," Myranda said, smiling gently.

"Well... I know most people have grand hopes and dreams... most people don't wish for a family. But that's what I wanted."

"You mean like your sister?"

"No... my own family: a wife and children." He paused. "I always wanted to have children," he said wistfully. "Lots of them... a whole litter running around the house."

Myranda laughed softly. "'Litter' may be the appropriate term considering you were raised by wild dogs in the Anderfels."

He laughed a little. "It's true!"

"And you're off to a slow start."

"Oh, I know." He sighed. "It... never would have happened, but I always thought it would be nice."

"Why never?"

"Well, if I hadn't been Conscripted into the Wardens, I would have had to take the vows to become a templar... and the Order has rules about that sort of thing."

"And that would have been a crime." She looked at him and smiled a little. "I mean, it would have robbed some poor Fereldan girl of a wonderful husband."

He smiled, feeling a blush creeping into his cheeks at the compliment.

"So... boys? Girls?"

"Both. I know everyone emphasizes sons, but I wanted a daughter, too... at least one. I think households are happier with a cute little girl running around."

Myranda giggled gently. "Oh, she'd have you wrapped around her little finger."

He laughed a little. "That'd be all right. Don't get me wrong, I'd love to have sons, too. But boys can be... rambunctious."

"I think 'wild' is the word you were looking for."

He laughed. "It's true. But daughters don't give you the problems that sons do."

"No, daughters cause their own problems. When they get old enough to fall in love... or some semblance of love... they're a parent's worst headache. Even if we're reasonable and sensible young ladies at all other times, that's the one thing that makes idiots of us all." She laughed a little suddenly. "Although love makes men act like fools, too. When Fergus was courting Oriana, he used to say and do the most ridiculous things. I always knew when he'd received a letter from her: he smiled more, and he used to walk around the castle with a bounce in his step... almost dancing down the corridors. Rory and I always laughed at him and how silly he was being. It wasn't nearly so funny when _we_ started doing the same things."

"It's never as funny when it happens to you."

"But, ah... to be so happy about acting like a fool." She laughed to herself for a moment and shook her head. "So I have to ask," she said. "Have you ever had a girl that you liked?"

"Romantically?" he asked, trying not to get nervous.

"Not necessarily," she said. "Did you ever think any of the village girls were cute?"

"None of the Redcliffe girls, no." He stopped, thinking. "There was really only one girl I ever remember thinking was cute."

"Oh?" She grinned at him. "What was her name?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. I... never actually talked to her." He paused, gazing unseeing at the fire, then continued. "Before I was sent off to the Chantry, there was a little girl—about my age, I guess—who came to visit the castle. Not just her, of course... her parents were there, too. I guess to congratulate the arl after his marriage. I don't know who they were, but I remember there was a lot of commotion... nearly as much as there had been when Maric and Cailan came to visit."

"Do you remember the heraldry?"

"I think... I seem to remember a light green teardrop with two crossed dark green staves or spears or something."

Myranda looked over at him.

"I don't know. But I know it had a light green teardrop. Anyway, I saw her in the courtyard one afternoon. I don't think she saw me—I hid in the shadows of the doorway to the stable—but I remember wondering about her." He stared off into the distance, a soft smile crossing his lips. "It's strange... I can remember like it was yesterday. She was wearing a light pink dress with a white sash and little white shoes, and looked decidedly unhappy about it. She kept finding rocks to kick in the courtyard and would kick them as hard as she could. It became a game after a while, I suppose... she started getting upset when the rocks didn't bounce as far as the ones previous. She had these blonde curls that bounced against her shoulders and just sparkled in the sun... just like a halo. I thought she was the prettiest girl I'd ever seen."

"You still do, by the sound of it," Myranda said quietly, a small smile on her lips. His voice had grown soft with the remembrance.

He chuckled softly. "If you can trust the opinion of a seven-year-old boy who has no frame of reference. I wanted to talk to her, but knew she'd probably think I was a servant or something." His smile was suddenly tinged with regret. "I never saw her again after that."

"So you were shy even then."

"I guess so. But then, I was just a dirty little boy who slept in the stable. Who was I to think about talking to some noble's daughter, no matter how cute she was?" He sighed heavily. "She probably has a few children of her own by now."

"Actually, she doesn't. She's not even married."

Alistair looked at her, startled. "You know her? You know who she was... is?"

"I do." She grinned mischievously at him. "And so do you."

He stared at her for a long time before she pointed to herself and his bewilderment turned to shock. "That was _you_?" Oh, Maker, how _stupid_ had he sounded?!

She nodded. "That heraldry you saw is the crest for the Teyrnir of Highever... though we usually use our family crest. And my hair wasn't always so long, you know." She smiled, looking at the ground. "I'd almost forgotten, but we did go to Redcliffe that summer. I hated that dress," she said. "I hate pink, and I despised the fact that I was being forced to wear it. And that did become a game... with the rocks. I wanted to see how far I could kick them. Nan was so angry when she found out how scuffed and dirty my shoes were. She scolded me all the way up to our rooms."

"Nan?"

"My nanny."

"Oh. I thought that cranky old lady was her—your—mother." He shook his head. "I can't believe it. It's so strange to think that we nearly met all those years ago."

"Ferelden seems such a big place, and then you find out just how small it is." Myranda let a grin cross her lips. "So you thought I was pretty, did you?"

He laughed nervously. "Well... you know. What does a seven-year-old know about any of that? Not to say that you _weren't_ pretty... that is... I... er..." his voice trailed off in embarrassment as she started to laugh.

"You're so cute when you're flustered," she said around a giggle.

"So... should I ask about the boys that you've liked?"

"Curious about those lampposts I've licked?" she teased.

He blushed darkly. "I... don't think I want that much detail."

"No kiss and tell stories? Oh, very well." She tapped a finger against her lips. "Let's see... boys that I liked..." she mused. "Well, I wish I had seen that cute little boy in Redcliffe when I was nine," she teased. "And there was Rory, of course... but that was reciprocated, so I suppose it doesn't truly count." She thought for a minute. "As much as I hate to admit this, I always thought Arl Howe's oldest son Nathaniel was quite... something."

Alistair smirked. "You sound like you're not sure what that 'something' was."

"Oh, I'm not," she said. "I hated him as a child: he was always better than me at archery. It used to make me so mad, I'd practice for months before they came to visit and he was always better than me. He didn't even have to try and he'd best me every time." She let herself smile. "I thought about him a lot... which for any normal girl would be a sign of genuine affection." She laughed a little then. "Too bad I'm not a normal girl."

"You said it," he teased. "Not me."

She grinned at him and poked him before continuing. "The last time Nate came with his father to visit, I was twelve and he was fifteen—right at that age where boys really become obnoxious towards girls. He tried to kiss me twice during that visit."

"He did?"

She nodded. "On the mouth, too!" she added with false horror.

"Shameful," Alistair said, shaking his head in mock reproach.

"Oh, don't worry, I threatened to knock him out if he tried a third time."

He laughed. "I can see you doing it, too!" he said.

"I did. Needless to say he didn't try again."

"I'd say not!" There was a long pause. "So... just the two?" he asked.

She looked at him, a mischievous and mysterious twinkle in her eyes. "Did I say that?"

He looked at her and was about to ask what she meant when the first beams of sunlight shot across the lake and into their makeshift tent.

Myranda held out her hand against the sudden bright light, blinking the spots from her eyes. "Well... so much for either one of us getting any sleep."

Alistair's voice had deserted him as the morning light shone in on her, the red-tinted beams turning her hair from yellow to the same shade as a piece of jewelry he'd once seen in Denerim. The merchant trying to sell it to a disinterested noblewoman had identified it as a rare pink gold from Rivain. He'd thought then that it was a ploy—some trick with paint or magic. Seeing the same color reflected in her hair, he was beginning to change his mind. "I can't think of any better reason to stay up all night," he said when he'd finally regained his senses.

Myranda lowered her hand a little, her eyes sparkling in the morning light. "I think it was one of the best nights of my life." She smiled. "Thank you."

He returned her smile warmly. "My pleasure."

 

 

_[Kingsway 16 – Evening]_

Leliana picked up a flattish stone, weighing it in her hand before tossing it toward the lake with a flick of her wrist. The stone skipped across the water three times before sinking.

"How did you do that?"

Leliana looked back to see Myranda staring at her, wide-eyed. "Have you never skipped stones before?"

"No. How do you do it? Can you teach me?"

Leliana laughed a little. "Certainly! It's quite simple, actually."

The simple trick, however, eluded Myranda for half an hour, all of her stones plunking straight into the water.

"You have to lean over more... release the stone just above the water," Leliana said as Myranda lobbed another stone into the lake. "Flick your wrist, similar to the way you throw a knife, only let your fingers follow through." She demonstrated the movement a couple times before handing the Grey Warden another rock. "Try again."

Myranda sighed, frustrated, before leaning over and flicking the rock toward the lake. It skipped once, and she felt like jumping with girlish glee. "I did it!"

Before either woman could say another word, however, another rock bounced across the waves, skipping five times before sinking on its sixth hit. Myranda turned to see Alistair standing behind her, grinning at her. "Show off," she muttered, pouting.

"I grew up by a lake," he said. "You can't expect me not to be able to skip a stone."

"That's no reason to show off."

The three each picked up another stone and tossed them toward the water. Alistair's skipped five times, Leliana's four times, and Myranda's skipped twice, which pleased her immensely.

A fourth rock suddenly skipped across the water, flying halfway across the lake and almost disappearing from view before it sank. The three humans turned and saw Sten regarding them stoically. "You lack discipline," was all he said before turning and walking back toward the camp.

 

 

_[Kingsway 17]_

Myranda vanished directly after dinner. It wasn't surprising. She tried not to show it, but Alistair could see her anxiety about Connor and what was happening at Redcliffe. He couldn't blame her... he was worried too. But as the days passed, he found himself worrying more about _her_ than anything else. There was no need to worry about her, he told himself over and over again. He remembered as if it were yesterday how she had threatened him at dagger-point to forget any feelings he had about protecting her. But some part of him refused to listen. Whatever it was, it originated in the same part of his brain that had started to make him dizzy when she laughed and made his heart trip and stumble over itself when she smiled at him.

But the point remained that he was worried about her, and he wanted to make sure she was all right. He followed where he had last seen her headed and found her near the shore of the lake. She had leaned her shoulder against a tree and was staring out at the water, though whether she was actually seeing any of it he didn't know. He took a step toward her and stopped. Maybe she wanted to be alone. Yes... why else would she have disappeared without saying anything? He was about to turn and go back to camp when the sudden sound of her voice startled him.

"What is it, Alistair?"

He blinked. "How did you know it was me?"

"I recognized your footsteps."

"Oh." He watched her for a few moments. "Are you all right?"

She laughed softly and gently. "Oh, yes. I'm fine. I'm just enjoying the tranquility while it lasts." She looked back at him. "I was just thinking about going for a walk by the lake, actually."

"I'll walk with you if you want. If you wouldn't mind some company, that is."

She smiled a little at him. "I never mind your company," she said. "Thank you."

He smiled and waved for her to lead the way.

They walked together slowly along the shore, listening to the water as it lapped gently at the small pebbly beach. The large full moon floated over the water in the deep velvet sky, its light sparkling on the waves and giving the lake a bright vein of silver luminescence. A slight breeze blew up, sighing softly in the treetops. Myranda fought the urge to find the scene romantic, keeping her hands clasped firmly behind her. The last thing she needed was to do something silly like trying to hold his hand like a lovesick girl. "It's a nice night, isn't it?" she said, desperate to fill the air with something to distract from the setting.

"It is that," he agreed. He racked his brain for something to say. "It's... a nice night for an evening."

He winced as soon as the words were out of his mouth. He had wanted to say something witty and charming... that had been neither.

Myranda shot him a look before she laughed uncertainly.

"So I'm wondering something," he said, quickly changing the subject.

"Yes?"

"I'd like to know your thoughts about some of our... traveling companions." He looked over at her. "Do you mind if I ask?"

"Ah." She smiled. "Time for the juicy gossip, I take it?" she teased.

Alistair grinned at her, settling into the more comfortable territory of shared humor. "I've got this nefarious plan to go around to each of them and secretly tell them all the nasty things you said. That way they'll mutiny and _I_ shall become the group leader!" He laughed then, a theatrical version of an evil laugh.

She laughed at this act. "If you want to lead, all you have to do is ask," she said.

"What?" he said in mock astonishment. "Lead? _Me_?" He smiled as she continued to giggle before shaking his head. "No, no, no," he said when she'd finally calmed down. "No leading. Bad things happen when I lead. We get lost. People die. And the next thing you know I'm stranded somewhere without any pants."

Myranda looked over at him, one eyebrow quirked upward. She opened her mouth to ask, then decided not to pursue it and shut it again, shaking her head and laughing softly to herself.

"Seriously though, I'm only curious. I've had enough time to form my own opinions and I just want to see if yours are any different."

She shrugged. "Sure. Sounds like fun. Ask away!"

"Ah, good." Alistair rubbed his hands together thoughtfully. "Where to start...?" He paused, considering for a moment before deciding. "What about Sten? The way he looks at me with those eyes..." he shook his head. "Creepy. And he's so quiet for someone so big."

"I respect him," Myranda said.

"The more I talk to him, the more reasonable he does seem," he agreed. "His philosophy is so strange, but it doesn't sound at all as vile as the Chantry describes it."

"Strange, yes." She looked at him. "You know, he actually questioned the fact that I was a woman because I'm a Grey Warden."

"What?"

She nodded. "He told me that women do not fight... and by fighting that means I want to be a man."

Alistair stared at her before looking back at the ground, puzzling over this. "That makes no sense," he said finally.

"That's what I told him." She shook her head. "But... I can't help feeling a strange sort of respect for him."

"And yet he killed all those people. He doesn't even deny it. Doesn't that bother you?"

Myranda frowned. "He seems to regret what he did."

Alistair considered this for a moment. "I'm not so sure that his regret means the same as it would for us. The qunari sense of honor is... a bit hard to grasp." He smiled a little at her. "For me, anyway."

"The qunari sense of _everything_ is a bit hard for me to grasp," Myranda said. "But I'm still trying."

"We get points for trying, right?"

"I hope so." She laughed a little. "Oh, and did I mention he apparently has a sweet tooth?"

"No!"

She nodded. "He asked me about cookies. The qunari apparently don't have anything like them and he asked—in that detached, disinterested qunari way—where he could get some."

Alistair laughed. "That's fascinating. I wonder if all qunari are like that?"

"We could conquer Seheron with baked goods. The greatest military victory in the history of Thedas!" She giggled. "So who's next?" she asked after a while.

Alistair thought for a moment. "What about Leliana?" he asked. "Is she crazy? Or do you really believe in her vision?"

Myranda hesitated, searching for a diplomatic way to state her opinion. "I believe that _she_ believes in her vision," she said finally.

"That's... one way to put it." He shook his head. "I don't know what to make of her," he admitted. "If you look at her when she doesn't see you, she just looks so... so sad. I almost feel guilty for taking her away from her life."

"It was her choice," she reminded him gently.

"Yes, I know. Still, I feel badly for her."

"From what I can gather," she said softly, "she had a hard life in Orlais as a bard. Something happened to make her come to Ferelden and Lothering, though what that was I can't imagine." She paused. "But she wanted to come with us, and I've been glad for her skills and her company." She grinned suddenly. "And need I remind you that _you_ were the one who insisted we bring Princess Stabbity with us?"

Alistair laughed a little. "I told you I didn't think she was _that_ crazy."

"No. And I suppose she isn't."

The good humor suddenly left his face and Myranda was certain the temperature of the air around them dropped several degrees as well.

"Morrigan," he said icily. "Do you trust her? Think about it... maybe Flemeth sent her with us for some other reason than she said."

Myranda laughed softly to herself. "You _really_ don't like each other, do you?"

"Well aside from the fact that she's a complete and utter _bitch_..." his voice trailed off and he made a face. "No. I don't like her at all." He looked at her then. "Why? Do you?"

"I like her just fine."

"Great," he said, his voice dripping with vicious sarcasm. "I am _thrilled_ beyond words. No, really."

Myranda smiled disarmingly. "I will admit that Morrigan's a bit... abrasive. But the more I talk to her, the more I find myself liking her."

"Just remember that she's dangerous," he said. "And evil. And _mean_."

She laughed softly at that. "I have a healthy respect for Morrigan—the same type of respect I have for a wild animal that could turn and kill me if I gave it any reason to be aggressive. But I like her. She's..." her voice trailed off and her smile faded. "She's a lot like the woman I nearly became," she finished softly.

"You couldn't be like her if you tried."

A frown settled on Myranda's lips. He really didn't know. But then, how could he? He couldn't know how close she had been to becoming cold, callous, and heartless in a way Morrigan could never dream of being. She shook herself from the gloomy thoughts and asked, "So who are you going to ask me about next?"

He looked over at her, confused. "Who else is there? The dog?"

"He's a fine specimen. A real, full-blooded mabari war hound: an excellent fighter and faithful to the very end." Myranda looked over at him with a grin. "But I was talking about those Grey Wardens."

Alistair grinned back at her. "Oh, right," he said. " _Them_."

"So what do you think of the templar?"

"Aside from his excellent sword skills and _fantastic_ hair, you mean?"

Myranda laughed a little. "Yes, he is a great warrior." She smiled. "And he's sweet, if a bit bashful."

"And he's witty!"

"And charming."

"And loyal."

"And good-looking."

Alistair blinked. "Do you really think so?" he asked.

"Yes, I do. And I've told him so... though perhaps not in so many words." She looked over at him and grinned slightly. "You're not jealous, are you?"

"Jealous? _Me_?"

Myranda laughed again.

"So you really like him, then?"

"I do. He has a wit and a humor that I appreciate. I've been glad for his company. He's been a dear friend to me, and I'm not sure I could make it through any of this without his help."

Alistair grinned, nearly giddy with delight. "I'm sure he'd be glad to know you thought that way."

She smiled at him. "Well, you can tell him if you want... though I don't think it would help your mutiny plans."

He mused over this for a moment. "You're right," he said finally. "I better keep it to myself, then."

The blonde woman giggled a little.

"I suppose that just leaves our fearless leader, then, doesn't it?"

Myranda stopped, the smile melting from her lips. "Oh yes," she said, looking out over the moonlit lake. " _Her_."

"You say that like you don't like her."

"I...." She sighed, sinking down to sit on the grass, watching the waves climb up the rocky shore towards her boots. "I don't know," she said finally. "She's quite a different person from the woman who went through the Joining."

"But different in a good way, right?" Alistair asked, sitting next to her. This sudden change in her worried him.

"I suppose," Myranda conceded, drawing her knees up to her chin and wrapping her arms around them. "At least she's able to smile. There was a long time when I didn't think she could." She looked over at him and smiled a little. "And you were the one who helped her smile, you know. She owes you a great deal for that alone." She watched him smile slightly at her before looking back out over the water and sighing again softly. "She'll never be the woman she was before she was recruited into the Grey Wardens... how could she be? She's much more careful now... guarded. She's colder, crueler in a way. And she doesn't trust as easily as she once did. She's become something... almost terrible... with greater potential for hate than for love." She lowered her eyes to her boots. "But... perhaps that too will change with time," she murmured, though she sounded as if she didn't quite believe it.

Alistair frowned at this dark description. There was so much good about her... so much warmth and light. The Maker Himself must have personally placed some of the sun's brilliance into her golden hair, and the most beautiful emeralds in Thedas couldn't begin to compare to her sparkling eyes. Her smile lit up the night in a way the moon never could, her laughter had a way of making all his worries and cares disappear. And she _did_ care. Why else would she have chosen the dangerous but more agreeable road of seeking out the mages to save a boy she didn't even know rather than just killing him? It was also why, she had told him, she had chosen to begin their journey at Redcliffe. The Brecilian Forest had been closer, but she had wanted to follow up on the rumors—not because Arl Eamon was important to Ferelden, but because he was important to him personally. She was wonderful and beautiful... why didn't she see that? Why couldn't she see that her very presence made the world a better place?

She looked over at him as silence stretched between them. "You haven't said much," she noted. "What do _you_ think of her?"

Alistair looked out over the water. "I think she's incredibly brave and strong," he said. "She can be really scary when she puts her mind to it. There's something about her eyes that's..." he searched for the word, seeing the expectant lift of her eyebrow without looking at her. "Incredibly intense," he said finally. "But she's got a wonderful smile and a really nice laugh. And she seems to actually listen to me, which is a bit new for me." He grinned at her as she laughed softly. "She's kind and smart and witty and..." he paused, taking a breath and daring himself to continue. "And I think she's the most beautiful woman in Ferelden."

Myranda looked away, ducking her head in embarrassment. "Don't let her hear you say that," she said, stretching her legs back out in front of her. "She might actually start to fall in love with you."

"Would that be so terrible?"

She looked over at him then, staring at him in slight surprise. Would that really be all right, for her to fall in love with him? It seemed like he was assuring her it was, but... could she really do that?

It would be easy to love him, she knew that much. Their camaraderie had developed quickly into a true and deep friendship. She enjoyed his playful banter, his ready smile, his easy laughter. Yes. It would be very easy to love him. If she could allow herself to do it, the fall would be fast and steep. There would be no turning back from it. If she let herself fall, it would be into a deep and overpowering love that would consume her heart and soul.

She smiled a little and reached over to pat his hand. "You're a good man, Alistair." Her smile took on more of a teasing quality then. "Even if you are an idle flatterer."

He smiled back at her, though there was a hint of disappointment in it. "Well, somebody needs to."

Myranda blushed and looked down at her hand, which still rested on top of his, before pulling it reluctantly away. "Well... um... we should be heading back."

"That... might be a good idea."

She lifted her eyes back to his.

"It's probably not... safe... for us to be alone. Out here, I mean."

"Probably not," she murmured. "Who knows what could happen?"

They stared at each other for several long moments, the only sounds the whispering of the wind and the constant gentle lapping of the water on the pebbly beach. The romance of the setting snuck up on Myranda, and she felt herself being carried away with it. She realized suddenly how very alone they were, how peaceful the night felt. How easy would it be to lean over and...

When she realized where her thought process was taking her, she jerked back to attention, clearing her throat as she looked away. "Well... we should head back then."

"Right." Thank Andraste she had said something. He'd been seconds away from leaning over and kissing her... an advance she probably wouldn't appreciate. His imagination had other ideas, however, and he stood up in an attempt to dislodge the image of them laying together on the beach. He reached down to help her to her feet, ignoring the tingling of his skin when she put her hand in his. He held on to her hand for a moment longer than was absolutely necessary before releasing it again. They stood very close together, staring at each other, before Myranda stepped away and turned back toward the camp.

They walked back together in silence, both lost in their own thoughts. When they reached the outskirts of their small campsite, Alistair looked over at Myranda. "You should get to bed," he said. "At least one of us should get a good night's sleep."

"I'm sharing the watch with Leliana tonight, remember?"

"Oh." Damn.

She gave him a puzzled look. "Will you not get any sleep?"

"Maybe. I don't know. I haven't really been sleeping well... nightmares, you know." Never had he been more glad for the excuse.

"Oh." She smiled a little at him then. "Thank you... for walking with me."

"Glad to." He returned her smile before clearing his throat uncomfortably as he felt the heat of a blush creeping up his neck. "Well... good night."

"Good night," she murmured. She watched him walk away until he ducked into his tent before a heavy sigh escaped her. She was starting to wonder if she'd rather feel nothing at all than this terrible confusion that caused her stomach to churn and her chest to ache. She sighed again, sitting by the fire and staring sullenly into it. It was going to be a long night.

 

 

_[Kingsway 18 – Mid-afternoon]_

"So what can a templar do, exactly?" Myranda asked.

"Essentially they're trained to fight," Alistair said simply. "The _Chantry_ would tell you that the templars exist simply to defend, but don't let them fool you. They're an army."

"Hmm." The templars were an army unto themselves. That was convenient.

"The other main purpose for a templar is, of course, to hunt mages. To that end, we train in talents that drain mana and disrupt spells."

She looked up at him curiously. "So templars use magic themselves?"

Alistair blinked. "You... could call it that, sure. The Chantry doesn't look on it the same way, however, since really our talents only work on mages. Against a regular person, I'm... just a guy in a metal suit," he finished with a shrug.

"Have you hunted many mages?" she asked quietly, not sure if she wanted to know the answer.

"No. I never actually became a full templar. Duncan recruited me before I took my vows." He paused for a moment. "I was only present during one Harrowing, the ritual that they test the mages with. It's not unlike our Joining, really, and... just as deadly."

She looked up at him.

"The girl they tested... she had a demon put inside her, to see if she could resist. And she couldn't." He looked decidedly uncomfortable. "We had to... end it quickly."

Myranda's eyes widened in horror and her hand went almost involuntarily to her throat before she looked back at the road.

"I have to say I didn't have much interest in becoming a templar after that."

"No," she breathed. "No, I wouldn't think so." She cleared her throat. "So couldn't others learn these talents?"

"Perhaps, but there usually isn't much of an opportunity. The Chantry keeps a close reign on its templars. We are given lyrium to help develop our magical talents, you see... which means we become addicted."

Myranda's eyes snapped back up to his face.

"And since the Chantry controls the lyrium trade with the dwarves..." his voice trailed off as he looked at her. "Well, I'm sure you can put two and two together."

"That's horrible!" the blonde woman cried. "I can't believe they would do that!"

"Well, they do it," Alistair said, a hint of acid creeping into his voice. "And they feel perfectly justified."

She bit her lip then. "Were you addicted to this lyrium?" she asked nervously.

"Thankfully no. You only start receiving lyrium once you've taken your vows."

Myranda released the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

"You don't need lyrium in order to learn the templar talents. Lyrium just makes templar talents more effective." He made a face. "Or so I was told. Maybe it doesn't even do that." He sighed a little. "The Chantry usually doesn't let their templars get away, either, so they can spread their secrets. I'm a bit of an exception. Lucky me."

"You say that like you don't believe it."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," he said, smiling suddenly. "I mean, I get to spend time with someone who actually listens to me and seems to care about what I say."

She grinned. "Oh? And who might that be?"

"I'll give you a hint: she's walking next to me and she's pretty."

Myranda laughed softly. "Not starting to think of me as a woman, are you?" she teased.

"No."

She looked up at his tone to find him staring at her with an affectionate smile on his face. No, he hadn't started thinking about her as a woman. He'd been thinking of her that way for a while now. She smiled back at him and deftly changed the subject. "So can you teach others to be a templar?"

Alistair hesitated. "I suppose I could... but I really would rather not. When the grand cleric let Duncan recruit me, she made me swear never to reveal templar secrets outside of the Chantry. I'd rather not go back on my word."

Myranda nodded a little, masking her disappointment. "Very well. I'll respect your word."

"Ask me later, perhaps. Maybe I'll change my mind. This is not something small you're asking, after all."

"Perhaps I will." She grinned up at him mischievously. "I can be _very_ persuasive when I want to be."

He laughed. "Oh, yes. I'm quite sure of that."

"I was just hoping I could learn some of the tricks."

"No, _you_ couldn't." He went on quickly when she looked up at him offended. "What I mean is, templars are trained as warriors first. Without those skills, it isn't possible for you to learn."

Myranda sighed softly. "So much for that, then. I was just thinking about claiming the title of first female templar as well as being the first female Grey Warden in three Ages."

"Actually, there are a few women in the templars. I think they just made a woman the Knight-Commander in Kirkwall, in fact."

"Well, then I guess it would do no good for you to teach me."

"There might be some other things I could teach you if you asked nicely," he teased.

"There might be a thing or two I could teach you, as well," she said suggestively, smirking up at him.

"I'm sure." He made a great show of looking confused then. "Wait, we are talking about swapping recipes now, right?"

She laughed at that. "Yes, of course," she said.

"Good. I knew we were on the same page."

Myranda smiled. "I need to tell you how much I enjoy your company," she said suddenly.

"You know, I was just thinking the same thing," he said, smiling at her. "Given the circumstances, things could have been so much worse." He watched as she blushed slightly and looked away. "I'm so grateful that you're... you. Instead of... some other Grey Warden."

The blonde woman blinked and shot him a puzzled look only to find him looking away, equally baffled.

"Umm... that sounded better in my head." Alistair looked over at her to see her covering her smile with one hand, her green eyes dancing with barely suppressed mirth. "I just mean to say that I can't imagine having done this without you."

The laughter faded from her eyes and she lowered her hand to reveal her smile then. "Thank you, Alistair."

"Now we just need to be rid of that pesky archdemon and everything would be back to normal, right?" he said with a chuckle.

She laughed a little. "True. That would help." She looked up the road. "I think I'm going to scout ahead a little," she said. "To see how close we are to the tower. I'd like to get there before sunset."

"Shall I come with you?"

"No, stay with the others. I'll be right back." She trotted up the road, whistling sharply. Baby barked in reply and took off after his mistress.

Alistair watched her disappear around a bend in the road, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. She was simply incredible. It made him happy just to hear her laugh... to see her smile. The more time they spent together, the more he realized what an amazing person she truly was. He'd meant what he said: he wasn't sure if he could do any of this on his own. She had pulled herself from the ashes of a terrible tragedy and was trying to almost single-handedly raise an entire army to help defeat the Blight. Did she even know how wonderful she was? He'd tried to tell her last night, but for some reason he didn't think she'd gotten it. He frowned a little. She still thought he was flattering her. But he wasn't!

But how, then? How was he supposed to make her see that he meant what he said, that he wasn't simply flattering her? He had no idea. But maybe... maybe one of the others knew. He glanced over his shoulder. Morrigan was noticeably missing, not that he cared. She wouldn't know anything about such a thing, even if he were to ask. Asking Sten was similarly out of the question. That left Leliana. She'd been a Chantry sister, but she was from Orlais, and surely was worldly wise. He nodded a little to himself before slowing his steps to draw even with the bard.

"Where did Myranda go?" she asked, looking over at him.

"Scouting. She thinks we're close to the tower and wants to see just how close we are."

"I see."

Alistair paused, searching for a way to broach the topic he wanted to discuss. "So... you're female, Leliana, right?" he began awkwardly.

"I am?" the redhead asked, feigning surprise. "That's news. When did that happen?"

"I just... wanted some advice," Alistair said, deciding to ignore her sarcasm. "What should I do if... if I think a woman is special and..." he trailed off, searching desperately for the words.

"You want to woo her?" Leliana supplied. "Here's a good tip: you shouldn't question her about her female-ness."

"All right, yes. Good point."

"Why do you ask?" she persisted. "Are you afraid things will not proceed naturally?"

"Why would they?" he asked miserably. "Especially when I do things like ask women if they're female."

Leliana smiled gently. "It adds to your charm, Alistair. You are a little... awkward. It is endearing."

"So... I should be awkward." He puzzled over this for a moment. "Didn't you just say not to do things like that?" he asked.

"Just be yourself. You do know how to do _that_ , don't you?"

Alistair sighed. "All right, forget I asked."


	14. The Mages' Dilemma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Myranda and party arrive at the Circle tower only to find more trouble.
> 
> Caeda Amell belongs to my friend Voce.

**Chapter 14: The Mages' Dilemma**

 

"There's the tower," Leliana said. "The view from the top must be spectacular!"

"Yeah," Alistair said, "but don't you ever wonder why the mages built their tower at Lake Calenhad? Do they have an aversion to practicality or something?"

"Did the mages build the tower," Myranda asked, "or the Chantry? I always assumed it was the latter."

"Mages being more practical than the Chantry?"

Myranda shrugged. "If the Chantry wanted to keep control of the mages and discourage them from running away, putting their tower in the middle of a lake certainly would help."

Baby barked.

"I find it very fitting," Morrigan put in, "that they would build a prison for mages in the middle of a lake and make it look like a giant phallus."

Myranda tilted her head a bit in the slightly awkward pause that followed. "Now that you mention it," she said, "it does. Perhaps it's supposed to be symbolic of something?"

"That's possible," Leliana agreed. "It could be symbolic of how mages are supposedly..."

"Hey, hey!" Alistair interrupted frantically. "Weren't we supposed to be in a hurry?"

Myranda smirked. "You're right," she said. "We are in a hurry. Let's go then."

She led the way down toward the dock where a young, bored-looking templar suddenly straightened up to look attentive.

"You!" he challenged. "You're not looking to get across to the tower, are you? Because I have strict orders not to let _anyone_ pass!"

"Nonsense," Myranda said. "I am a Grey Warden and I seek the assistance of the mages. Now out of the way."

"Oh, you're a Grey Warden, are you?" the templar said, his skepticism obvious. "Prove it."

She blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"Prove it!"

" _Prove_ it?" she repeated incredulously.

"Kill some darkspawn. Come on. Let's see some righteous Grey Wardening."

The blonde woman rolled her eyes. "Don't be ridiculous. Do you _see_ any darkspawn here? Now stand aside."

"A-ha! I knew it! I bet you can't even sense them! A real Grey Warden is supposed to be able to sense darkspawn." He looked at Baby. "I bet that's not even a real mabari." He backed up a step when the dog snarled at him.

Myranda turned to Leliana. "You'll stop me if I try to kill him, won't you."

"It probably wouldn't endear us to those in charge at the tower."

"I don't know," Alistair said. "The mages would probably thank us for it. Although I can't say I'd endorse your killing templars, either."

"You make it sound like it'd be so easy," the templar guard said with haughty derision.

Myranda looked at Sten and Morrigan, the latter of whom smirked evilly. "At least four against one," she said as she turned back to the templar guard, patting Baby as he growled menacingly. "I rather like my odds."

The templar cast a wary look first at the qunari glowering down at him and then at the snarling mabari before shrugging. "Anyway, it was nice chatting with you. Now on your way. Right now. Go." He waved his hands at them as if shooing away a pesky animal.

"You know," Myranda said, trying a different tactic, "your superior won't like that you've given me trouble."

"Oh, really? You think Greagoir would be upset with me for not letting you in?"

"Please," Leliana cut in. "Can't we work something out?"

The templar thought for a moment. "I don't know," he said. He put his hand over his stomach then. "Y'know, I am feeling a little peckish, though."

"Well, there must be food at the tower," Myranda said with exaggerated patience.

" _Parshaara_!" Sten growled suddenly. "Here!" He thrust a crumpled box at the knight. "Munch on these if you like."

The templar opened the box warily before his face lit up. "Ooh, cookies!"

"I am content to part with them if it saves us from this fool," Sten muttered.

Myranda stared at the qunari, amazed at this turn of events. "Where did you get those?"

"There was a child—a fat, slovenly thing—in the last village we passed. I relieved him of these confections. He did not need any more."

"You stole cookies from a child?" she asked in disbelief.

"For his own good."

"Unbelievable," she said before turning back to the templar and the problem at hand. "So you're fed. Now, shall we avoid your getting into trouble with your superior?"

The young man looked up, a shortbread cookie in his mouth, looking like a cat with a fish. He bit off part of it, chewed, and swallowed with great deliberation. "Greagoir's the big guy around here," he said finally. "I bet he could deal with one Grey Warden." He shot Myranda a suspicious look. " _Alleged_ Grey Warden."

"Let me handle this Greagoir."

"Well, you want that I should take you there now?"

Standing behind her, Alistair saw Myranda's shoulders lift and could almost feel the heat from her rage at this asinine question before he put a hand on her back between her shoulder blades to help stem the storm. "Yes," he said. "Immediately."

"Oh, well, come along, I suppose." He waved them toward the large rowboat as he started to untie the knots securing it to the dock.

"Cookies, huh?" Alistair muttered, moving in front of Myranda and grinning at her.

"I told you," she murmured with a smirk.

They piled into the boat, which, though it rode incredibly low in the water, was perhaps not in immediate danger of sinking. It was a quiet journey for the most part, everyone lost in their own thoughts. As their templar guide rowed them across, Myranda found her eyes lifting above the top of the tower to the inky sky and suddenly found herself sighing. "It's so sad," she said quietly.

"What's that?"

"There aren't any stars."

Alistair blinked and looked up. "You're right," he said. "I hadn't noticed."

"I suppose it's because of the Blight, but it... well... it makes me sad." She sighed softly. "In Highever, it seemed that the sky was always over-full with them: a million or more needle points of light in a great black tapestry. I remember one night Fergus, Rory and I climbed up to the top of one of the towers and tried to count them all."

He looked back at her. "How many did you count?"

"I don't remember; I think we all lost count. I was still a child, so I couldn't count very high." She frowned. "That was a long time ago."

Alistair frowned. She looked so sad and lost that it almost physically hurt him to see it. Unsure of what to do, he tentatively reached over and gently took her hand.

Myranda lowered her eyes from the black heavens to look at him. His concern was obvious, and it was good to know that he cared. She smiled at him, curling her fingers around his. He returned her smile before they both turned their eyes to the dark tower looming slowly closer.

When they reached the dock at the base of the tower, Alistair jumped out of the boat quickly before turning and holding his hand down to Myranda. She looked at him, smirking a little at this overtly gallant gesture before placing her hand in his, allowing him to help her out of the boat. They stood close together for a few seconds and she smiled at him before moving away, watching out of the corner of her eye and with no small amusement how he hesitated before offering the same courtesy to Leliana. It came as no surprise how he left Morrigan to fend for herself.

Inside the tower was a scene of chaos, with several templars running around in a mad, panicked frenzy. One—obviously the leader—was giving orders.

"...and I want two men stationed within sight of the doors at all times," he was saying. "Do not open the doors without my express consent. Is that clear?"

"Yes, ser," the templar said with a sharp salute.

"The Knight-Commander's barred the doors," Alistair noted quietly. "Are they keeping people out? Or _in_?"

"No telling," Myranda murmured. "But I intend to find out."

"Now we wait," Greagoir muttered, "and pray."

"What's going on here?" the blonde demanded.

Greagoir turned and looked at her with slight contempt. "And who do you think _you_ are?"

"My name is Myranda Cousland, I'm a Grey Warden. These are my companions," she said, waving to the rest of the company.

"So the rumors are true, that some of the Grey Wardens survived the battle at Ostagar," the Knight-Commander muttered.

"Just two, I'm afraid." She nodded toward the heavy door. "Now what's going on?"

"We are dealing with a very delicate situation. You must leave, for your own safety."

"I will not. I can't. I seek the mages' help to defeat the darkspawn."

Greagoir sighed in irritation. "I am weary of the Grey Wardens' ceaseless need for men to fight the darkspawn," he said, "but it is their right."

"So you'll help us, yes?"

"You'll find no allies here," the Knight-Commander said dismissively. "The templars can spare no men, and the mages are... indisposed."

Myranda lifted an eyebrow. "Indisposed?" she repeated, crossing her arms over her chest.

Greagoir sighed again, more heavily, turning to look at the heavy sealed doors bearing the sun emblem of Andraste. "I shall speak plainly: the tower is no longer under our control. Abominations and demons stalk the tower's halls." He turned back to the blonde woman. "The Circle is lost. The tower has fallen."

"How did this happen, Commander?" Alistair asked.

"We don't know," the templar commander said flatly. "We saw only demons, hunting templars and mages alike. I realized we could not defeat them and told my men to flee." He shook his head. "We were prepared for one or two abominations—not the horde that fell upon us."

"So what's your plan?" Myranda asked.

"I would destroy the tower," Greagoir said vehemently, "raze it to the ground." He sighed heavily then. "But I cannot risk more of my men. The doors remain shut and they will protect us for now."

"So the mages are all locked within?" Morrigan asked. "A fitting end for those who gave up their own freedom."

"You shut everyone in there?" Leliana cried. "Including innocent mages?"

"Not just mages," Greagoir said, his voice heavy with regret, "but my templars also."

"Couldn't you have evacuated the mages?" the bard persisted. "Helped them? Done..." her voice trailed off before she flung up her hands, " _something_?"

The Knight-Commander shook his head. "I had no choice. The abominations must be contained at all costs. But we do not mean for the doors to stay closed forever. Everything in the tower must be eliminated."

A shock of horror went down Myranda's spine.

"I have sent word to Denerim, calling for reinforcements and the Right of Annulment."

"What is the Right of Annulment?" the blonde woman asked.

"The Right of Annulment gives templars the authority to neutralize the mage Circle." He looked straight at Myranda. "Completely."

"What?" she breathed.

"The mages are probably already dead," Alistair said regretfully. "Any abominations remaining in there must be dealt with no matter what."

Greagoir nodded in agreement. "This situation is dire. There is no alternative—everything in the tower must be destroyed so it can be made safe again."

"No!" Myranda turned to Alistair desperately. "We didn't come all this way to fail Connor now!" She watched him frown and look away, shaking her head as she turned back to the Knight-Commander. "The mages are not defenseless," she said. "Surely some must still live!"

"If any are still alive, the Maker Himself has shielded them. No one could have survived those monstrous creatures." He lowered his head. "It is too painful to hope for survivors and find… nothing."

"But it was you that shut them all in and abandoned them to whatever's inside!"

"And what was I to do?" he countered. "Leave the door open as the abominations poured out?"

"He... he's right, Myranda," Alistair said. "All the Circles have doors like these, to prevent abominations from... getting loose."

She looked at him, not wanting to accept defeat. Surely... _surely_ some of the mages had survived! Surely there were enough left to help Connor. As for the Blight... _"The Chantry would tell you that the templars exist simply to defend, but don't let them fool you. They're an army."_ "Knight-Commander," she said, turning back to the older man, drawing his attention again. "If I help you deal with the Circle, will you lend me aid?"

Greagoir looked at her long and hard. "Without word from Denerim, _I_ must determine our course," he said after several long minutes. "If, by some miracle, you destroy the abominations, yes—the templars will join your army. Surely destroying darkspawn is a worthy goal."

"Then we have an agreement," Myranda said, reaching out to shake his hand firmly.

"A word of caution," Greagoir said as he released her hand. "Once you cross that threshold, there is no turning back. The great doors must remain barred. I will open them for no one until I have proof that it is safe. I will only believe it is over if the first enchanter stands before me and tells me it is so. If Irving has fallen, then the Circle is lost, and must be destroyed."

"I understand," Myranda said. "We'll rescue those we can and find the first enchanter."

Greagoir nodded once. "May Andraste lend you Her courage, then." He looked toward the two templars guarding the doors. "Let them through," he said, "and be sure the doors are barred behind them."

Myranda turned to her party. "I can't ask any of you come with me. Maker knows what's on the other side of those doors."

"You're not going alone," Alistair told her. "You can't defend yourself from magic. At least I can help you with that."

She looked at him and smiled a little, placing a hand on his arm. "I'll feel much better if you're with me. Thank you."

"We have to save the mages," Leliana said. "I'm coming too."

Baby barked.

Myranda nodded before looking at Morrigan and Sten.

"'Tis the mages who allowed themselves to be imprisoned," Morrigan said. "I say leave them to their fate."

Myranda glanced over her shoulder. "There are a lot of templars running around out here," she said. "Are you sure you'd be all right staying here with them?"

"Do not patronize me," Morrigan said icily. "Even if they were to attempt to capture me, their prison has fallen."

The Grey Warden looked up at Sten.

"This is a pointless endeavor," he growled. "There are darkspawn to be fought."

"Fine. Then stay. We'll be back as soon as we're able... with the first enchanter." She turned on her heel and strode toward the templar guards at the massive metal doors. The two seemed to glance at each other before one pulled on one of the doors, which opened with a loud creak. Myranda squared her shoulders and strode into the building.

The door shut behind them with a resounding thud.

"Well," Myranda said, "no turning back now."

"This is too cruel," Leliana said, looking around. "I would not subject even an animal to such a terrible fate."

Alistair looked around as well. "As I recall from my time as a templar, locking the door and throwing away the key was always 'Plan B.'"

"It's always supposed to be 'Plan B,'" Myranda said. "I just hope we haven't come all this way only to find all the mages have been killed."

They wandered down the long hallway, peeking into doors to find what may have once been a barracks or dormitory for young mages, considering the ages of those they found dead. The only thing more disturbing than the ages of the dead were the sheer numbers. There were a great many templars laying amongst the mages as well.

They followed the circular hallway to a plain wooden door. Myranda wasn't sure when she'd drawn her dagger, but suddenly found it in her hand when she reached for the handle. She took a deep breath, sheathing the blade before wrapping her fingers around the metal. It seemed to tingle in her hand... but surely she was imagining that. But her arm still refused to pull on the handle. _"Come now, Myranda,"_ she scolded herself. _"It's a door like any other... most likely only more dead mages and templars on the other side."_ The idea brought a disturbing image of Alistair amongst the dead, but she quickly dismissed it. "I'm overreacting," she murmured.

"Better to be cautious," Alistair told her. "There's enough magic in this place to make the hair on the back of your neck stand up."

"Glad I'm not just imagining it." She took a deep breath and, steeling herself, pulled open the door.

A blast of heat met them almost immediately, radiating from what appeared to be an amorphous figure of pure flame. Two mages were protecting about a dozen children of various ages that huddled by the wall next to the door, while another, older mage stood in the middle of the room. She lifted a gnarled staff above her head for a moment before pointing it at the flame monster. A ball of blue-white light shot from the end of the staff and struck the creature in the center of its mass, causing it to somehow crystallize before it shattered. With the flames extinguished, Myranda was able to make out how the doorway on the other side of the room just barely shimmered with a strange blue light. The elder mage sighed then, lowering her staff.

"More trouble," one of the other mages—an incredibly short but adorable young woman with medium-length blonde hair pulled back into pigtails—called as she herded the children away from Myranda and her companions. Her voice held a slight lilt, despite the fact that her features betrayed her to be a native Fereldan.

The elder mage turned then and Myranda blinked, recognizing her from Ostagar. "Wynne?"

Wynne looked as surprised as Myranda felt. "It's you!" Her eyes narrowed then and she lifted her staff. "No... come no further. Grey Warden or no, I will strike you down where you stand!"

Myranda held up her hands in surrender. "I'm not here to fight you."

The older woman stared at her critically for a few more moments before relaxing slightly. "I will accept that, for now."

"What are you doing here?"

"I am a mage of the Circle," Wynne said. "More importantly, why are _you_ here? The templars would not let just anyone by."

"I came here seeking the aid of the mages against the Blight."

Wynne smirked darkly. "And you were told that the Circle was in no shape to help you, I suppose."

"More or less. I believe the word Greagoir used was 'indisposed.'"

"A mild understatement."

"So I gathered when they locked the door behind us."

"So why did the templars let you in?" Wynne pressed. "Do they plan to attack the tower now?"

"Don't worry," Alistair said, "the Right of Annulment hasn't arrived."

The elder mage sighed heavily, seeming to wilt before them. "They sent for it, then," she said softly. "I feared they might have. What else could they do?"

"So... Greagoir thinks the Circle is beyond hope?" the young auburn-haired man who was standing near the children asked.

The blonde girl with him sniffed slightly. "He probably assumes we're all dead, Kinnon."

"But they're the ones who abandoned us!" the young man countered.

"If they invoke the Right," Wynne said to them, "we will not be able to stand against them."

Several of the younger children began to cry softly at the words, and the blonde mage knelt to hush and comfort them. Baby whined and trotted over toward them, sparking a small, soft chorus of "Puppy!" and "Good doggie!"

"What happened here?" Myranda asked. "How did things get this way?"

"Let it suffice to say that we had something of a revolt on our hands," Wynne said.

A soft snort drew Myranda's attention back to the other blonde.

"That's putting it mildly," she said flatly. "Uldred went insane."

"Shh, Caeda!" the young man—Kinnon—said.

"When he returned from the battle at Ostagar," Wynne continued, "he tried to take over the Circle. As you can see, it didn't work out as he had planned." She looked over her shoulder at the other doorway. "I don't know what became of Uldred, but I am certain all this is his doing." She looked back at Myranda and straightened her spine. "I will not lose the Circle to one man's pride and stupidity."

"So what do you intend?" Myranda asked.

"I erected a barrier over the door leading to the rest of the tower, so nothing from inside could attack the children," Wynne explained. "You will not be able to enter the tower as long as the barrier holds, but I will dispel it if you join with me to save the Circle."

"Of course."

"Once Greagoir sees that we have made the tower safe, I trust he will tell his men to back down. He is not unreasonable."

Kinnon muttered something under his breath, too softly for Myranda to make out.

"The Knight-Commander said he'd only accept the first enchanter's word," Alistair said.

"That's right," Myranda agreed. "He said if the first enchanter was dead then the Circle was lost."

"Then our path is laid out before us," Wynne said. "We must save Irving."

"What about the children?" Leliana asked.

Myranda looked over at the knot of children huddled in a corner. One, a little girl  who was probably around six with bright silver-grey eyes and long brown hair, stared back at her with a curious mixture of fear and hope. "Will they be safe here?" the Grey Warden asked.

"Caeda and Kinnon will watch them," Wynne said, waving toward the two young adults. "If we slay all the fiends we encounter on our way, none will get by to threaten the children."

"Very well—if you think that is best."

Wynne looked at the two younger mages. "Caeda, Kinnon... look after the others. I will be back soon."

The petite blonde mage frowned. "Wynne, you were badly hurt earlier. Will you at least let me examine you before you go?"

"I'll be all right, Caeda, thank you."

Caeda looked unhappy about this but nodded once. She turned to Myranda then, her blue-green eyes regarding her for a few moments before she held out one hand.

Myranda almost immediately felt a warm tingle in the old bite wound on her arm. She looked at the bandaged area, then back at the mage.

"That wound should be healed now."

"Thank you," she said with a nod, which was returned.

"Maybe I should come with you, Wynne?" Kinnon offered.

"No, stay with Caeda and the children."

"Have faith," Myranda said. "We will not fail."

Wynne looked at her. "Your confidence is refreshing," she said, "though you should make sure it does not blind you to your weaknesses."

"I'll be careful."

"If you are ready, let us go end this."

"Right." She accompanied the mage to the other doorway, trying to ignore how every nerve in her body tingled from immanent danger. "What do we need to do?"

"I'll just have to dispel the barrier." She looked up at the shimmering doorway before sighing softly. "I am somewhat amazed at myself for having kept it in place this long."

"You did what you had to do, Wynne."

"It made me very weary at times, but I had to stay strong, to keep us safe."

"I understand... better than you know."

Wynne looked over at her before a tiny smile lifted the corners of her mouth. "Yes, I believe you do."

The blonde returned the slight smile.

"One more thing before we go," Wynne said. "Age has... not been kind to my memory. You'll have to remind me of your name."

She smiled. "I'm Myranda."

"Ah, yes. You were looking for someone when we last spoke at Ostagar."

"Alistair." Myranda pointed at the other Grey Warden, who had looked up when she said his name. "I found him, too."

"I see." She looked up at the shimmering blue curtain of magic again. "Be prepared for anything. I do not know what manner of beasts lurk beyond this barrier." She looked at Myranda again. "Are you ready?"

Myranda drew her sword and dagger. "I'm ready," she said. "Destroy the barrier."

Wynne nodded. "All right. Be on your guard." She breathed a soft sigh before holding her hands out toward the doorway, closing her eyes.

Myranda looked around as Alistair and Leliana walked over to flank her on her left and right, respectively. She looked over at Alistair, tapping her sword blade lightly against his, smiling when he looked at her. He returned her smile before lifting his blade and tapping it against hers. The blue light of the barrier glowed brighter suddenly, drawing their attention, before dissipating with a soft popping sound.

"There," Wynne said, lowering her hands.

The blonde woman nodded once. "Baby," she called, looking back at the mabari, "let's go. Tell the children goodbye now."

The dog barked, licking an elf boy on the cheek as four children hugged him before shaking them off and trotting over to her.

"Be cautious," Wynne said, leading the way into the tower. "Abominations could be anywhere."

"We'll check every room," Myranda said. "I don't want anything to be able to sneak past us."

It was slow going through the first floor, running into a few abominations before reaching the stairs to the second floor. There they met with more resistance until they reached the central area. A door to another room was open while a balding man was methodically stacking items by the doorway. His robes were smudged with dust.

"Owain!" Wynne called, rushing over to him. "What are you doing here?"

He turned to her then, regarding her without expression. "Please refrain from going into the stockroom," he said in a deadpan tone that made Myranda's skin crawl just to listen to. "It is a mess and I have not been able to get it into a state fit to be seen."

"Why are you cleaning at a time like this?" Myranda asked, feeling unnerved.

"The stockroom is my responsibility," Owain said simply, still without expression. "I must keep it clean."

"Haven't you come across abominations?"

"No. I suppose I should count myself lucky. I would prefer not to die."

Myranda was confused and increasingly unnerved by the total lack of emotion in him. Any normal person would have been hysterical, with unknown numbers of abominations roaming the tower. How could he be so calm?

"Tranquil," Alistair whispered in her ear, answering the question on her face.

The blonde closed her eyes, fighting to control the pleasurable shudder that threatened to roll through her body. She managed, but only just. But the sound of his voice whispering in her ear also sparked a myriad of deliciously wicked thoughts, which she fought back with much more difficulty.

"I tried to leave, when things got quiet," Owain went on. "That was when I encountered the barrier. Finding no other way out, I returned to work."

"Owain, you should have said something!" Wynne said. "I would have opened the door for you."

"The stockroom is familiar," the Tranquil said complacently. "I prefer to be here. I would also prefer it if the tower returned to the way it was. Perhaps Niall will succeed and save us all."

"Succeed at what?" Leliana asked.

"I do not know, but he came here with several others, and took the Litany of Adralla."

"But that protects from mind domination," Wynne said. "Is blood magic at work here?"

"I do not know."

"Niall was in the meeting," Wynne said to herself. "He would know."

"Then we should find this Niall," Myranda said.

"I wish you luck," Owain said blandly. "Perhaps this will be over soon and things will return to the way they were. Goodbye." Having dismissed them, he turned back to the stockroom to continue with his cleaning.

"Blood magic," Wynne muttered as they walked away. "I was afraid of this."

"How does this make it worse?" Myranda asked. "Aren't abominations bad enough?"

"Blood magic could control us, too," Alistair told her. "It's a power mages can only gain by contacting demons... which leads to the corruption of the mage. That's why it's forbidden by the Chantry and the Circles."

"We should find Niall," Wynne said. "The Litany will give us a fighting chance against any blood mages we encounter."

"What is this Litany of... Andralla?" Myranda asked.

"Adralla," Wynne corrected. "It is a chant that keeps a blood mage from dominating a person's mind."

The blonde thought about that for a moment. "Can Leliana or I use such a chant? We're not mages or templars. Would it work if we were to speak it?"

"No, only mages and templars can use the Litany."

"Then how will we be protected?" Leliana asked.

"And Baby too?" Myranda added.

"The chant does not work only on the chanter," Wynne explained. "The Litany disrupts—magically disrupts—a blood mage."

"Offence is considered the best defense for blood mages," Alistair added. "That's what the Litany is... more or less."

"I see," Myranda said. "I think."

"Does it do no good to physically attack blood mages?" Leliana asked. "Myranda and Baby and I seem to be at a disadvantage… if we make them bleed, doesn't that only help them?"

"She has a point," Myranda said. "How do you kill a blood mage? Do you have to cut off their heads to keep them from healing themselves back from the brink of death?"

"Blood mages can be killed, as with any other person," Wynne said.

"At last, some good news," Myranda said.

"It's always best to be cautious, however," the mage warned. "So be on your guard."

"Right."

They fought their way through more abominations on the second floor before finally coming across a large knot of young mages, all of whom looked incredibly frightened or desperate, with too many of them showing a dangerous combination of both. The five managed to slay all of them before turning to a young brunette who had cowered in a corner after her first blood magic spell had been ruthlessly countered.

"Please," she stammered as Myranda and Alistair strode purposefully toward her, her dark brown eyes flitting back and forth between them. "Please don't kill me."

"Tell me why I should spare your life," the blonde woman demanded.

"I know I have no right to ask for mercy, but I didn't mean for this death and destruction. We were just trying to free ourselves!"

"From the Circle?"

"N-no. Uldred told us that if the Circle supported Loghain, Loghain would help us be free of the Chantry." The young mage shuddered violently then. "You don't know what it was like," she murmured in horror. "The templars were watching, always watching..."

"But why turn to forbidden magic?" Alistair asked.

"The magic was a means to an end. It gave us... it gave me the power to fight for what I believed."

"Fighting for what you believe is commendable," Wynne said, having walked up behind the two Wardens, "but the ends do not always justify the means."

"You don't really believe that do you Wynne?" the other mage asked, her brown eyes shining with a strange fire. "Change rarely comes peacefully. Andraste waged _war_ on the Imperium; she didn't write them a strongly worded letter." She made a grand, sweeping gesture with her arm. "She reshaped civilization, freed the slaves, and gave us the Chantry, but people died for it. Someone always has to take the first step... to force a change, no matter the cost!"

"Nothing is worth what you've done to this place," Wynne said coldly.

The young mage moaned, all of her energy and fervor seeming to leave her as she dropped her head into her hands. "And now Uldred's gone mad," she said as if she hadn't heard what Wynne said, "and we are scattered, doomed to die at the hands of those who seek to right our wrongs."

"And all you do is wallow in self-pity," Myranda said contemptuously. "Pathetic."

She lifted her face again. "What else can I do? I'm trapped here."

"You can die with dignity."

The dark brown eyes widened with horror. "No..." she said, "no please!" The rest of her plea was cut off as Myranda moved in and quickly cut the girl's throat.

"I almost feel badly for her," Leliana said.

"She knew what she was doing," Myranda said, sheathing her dagger and turning from the room. "Let's go."

They wandered through the halls, Myranda heading for the stairwell before changing direction at Wynne's "This way." She followed the older woman to a dead end before walking through the doorway on their right.

The room was large and spacious, yet felt somehow cozy. Three of the walls were dominated by tall bookshelves that were packed with books—more than they were designed to hold, in fact, as some volumes were placed sideways on top of others. Short piles also sat on the floor in front of the pieces. A desk, massive in its own right and littered with papers, was dwarfed by the large bookcases.

"Wow," Leliana breathed, shouldering her bow. "All this must have belonged to someone important."

"This is Irving's office," Wynne told them. "I half-expected to find him here, but..." her voice trailed of into a sigh. "I suppose that was too much to hope for."

Myranda wandered around the room with the wide-eyed awe of a girl. "I feel like I'm back in our library in Highever," she murmured.

"You think he's read all these?" Alistair asked.

"I don't know... but what else is there to do when you're trapped in a tower with no windows?" She ran her fingers over some of the spines, stopping when a name on one caught her eye. She pulled the book from the shelf and looked at the front cover, but her eyes had not deceived her. She looked at Alistair, who read the cover over her shoulder and looked as surprised as she felt. But it couldn't be a coincidence.

"Myranda?" Wynne called. "We cannot stay."

"Right... sorry." She put the book reluctantly back on the shelf. Hopefully she could come back for it.

They continued up to the next floor, finding more templars now than mages among the dead. Opening one door revealed one templar who was still alive, standing in the middle of the room with a strange woman. Her skin was dark, but with a strange purplish hue that must have been natural, as her lack of clothing revealed. Her long black hair offset her black eyes that looked like holes in her skull. She didn't stand by the templar as much as she floated next to him, who looked at her adoringly.

"What do you think, my dear?" the woman asked, her voice strangely doubled. "I even brought in some flowers for the table."

The templar looked around, a delighted look on his face. "It's so beautiful..." he looked at the woman and smiled. "Just like you."

"Ugh..." Leliana muttered. "I'm going to have nightmares after this."

"What... what is that?" Myranda asked.

"A desire demon," Wynne said, sounding horrified. "One of the most powerful demons in the Fade."

"Everything is just as you wanted, my knight," the desire demon was saying. "Our love and our family is more than you hoped for."

"It's wonderful," the templar breathed.

Wynne shook her head. "T-this cannot continue. We have to stop it..."

"Unhand him, foul demon!" Myranda challenged.

The bewitched templar blinked and looked around, unseeing. "Do you hear something, love?"

"It is nothing, my darling," the desire demon cooed. "Just the door. I will get it." It wrapped its arms around the young man from behind, its fingers tracing odd patterns across the knight's chestplate. "The children have finished supper. Tuck them into bed while I see who it is."

"Don't be long, the children will want to kiss you goodnight."

Myranda felt her stomach turn over, revolted at the scene before her.

"Now that's just unnecessary," Alistair muttered, sounding ill himself.

"I will be but a moment, my pet." The demon untangled itself and floated over to Myranda. "You are intruding upon a loving, intimate moment," it said, sounding annoyed, "and I dislike disruptions."

"There's nothing loving or intimate going on here," Myranda retorted.

The demon seemed mildly surprised. "I have given him what he always wanted. Where is the harm in that?"

"You're deceiving him. I would consider that harmful."

"All emotion is intangible," the demon said reasonably. "You cannot see it, cannot grasp it."

Wynne spoke then. "But it is normally caused by something real—real events, real people." She looked back at the templar, who was making motions like he was putting children to bed. "What you've done to him is... is abhorrent."

"You're feeding off his innermost desires and taking away his will," Leliana said. "This... this is unholy!"

"I saw his loneliness and longing for a family that loved him. No one else would have known his heart. He did not know it himself."

"So you think you're doing a good thing?" Myranda asked incredulously.

"We are partners," the demon told her. "I give him what no one else can, and through him, I experience what it is to be mortal."

"You are a parasite, feeding off of him as you delude him. He deserves to be free from you, to find his own happiness."

"What happiness? He has gone through life empty, resentful of his vows. You would return him to this?" It waved dismissively at the three women. "I want nothing from you. I have what I need. All I ask is that you leave us alone." It turned its doe eyes to Alistair, who recoiled. "Unless you wish to leave me with another playmate?"

Myranda moved quickly to stand between them, pointing her sword at the demon. "Touch him and you will die that much faster," she snarled.

The demon seemed to sigh. "Then leave me... leave us alone to our intimacy."

"I will not leave you to drain him and move on to someone else. Let him go!"

"Then you leave me no choice." It floated back toward the middle of the room and fixed a horrified expression on its face. "Help!" it screamed. "There are bandits at the door! They are going to murder the children!"

"They will not get past me!" the bewitched templar said, drawing his sword and rushing toward them.

"Take the demon!" Myranda shouted to Wynne and Alistair. "Leliana, help me with the templar!"

"Try not to hurt him," Wynne called.

"Easy to say," Myranda called back, dancing out of the way of the bewitched templar's sword as he easily counted every blow from the two women. He knocked Leliana away, causing her to slam into the wall before he turned to Myranda. The blonde parried a second blow and barely evaded a third before lashing out with a kick to his knees to throw him off balance and ducking behind him.

"Alistair!"

Myranda looked up at Leliana's sharp cry to see the desire demon holding out her hand to him, and the point of his sword starting to lower. White hot rage rushed through her veins. She slammed the pommel of her dagger into the knight's temple, knocking him out before dropping her blades and racing across the room. She lunged forward with an enraged yell, her shoulder slamming into the demon's stomach and sending both of them crashing to the ground. The demon hissed and clawed at Myranda in its fury, but the blonde woman quickly gained the upper hand, pinning the demon's arms beneath her knees and drawing her knife before plunging it into the creature's neck. It shrieked and instantly vanished.

Myranda looked around, panting softly. She was surprised the demon had been so easy to kill, but then, she hadn't thought she would actually tackle a demon to the ground, either. She looked back at Alistair to find him blinking at her in slight confusion. "Are you all right?" she asked, standing.

"I... I think so." He shook his head. He must have been seeing things. He could have sworn that, for just a moment, there had been two of her.

"That was most impressive," Wynne said. A note of amusement entered her voice then as she continued, "I've never seen anyone physically attack a demon that way before, not even to protect a friend."

"You did rather look like a jealous lover," Leliana teased as she walked over.

Myranda blushed darkly. "It... I didn't..." her voice failed her and she went back toward the doorway to retrieve her blades, not daring to look at Alistair. "Let's... let's just go," she said.

They reached the central hub of the floor only to find it dominated by another demon—this one large and oozing a contented complacency. On the floor around it lay several mages, all appearing to be dead... or asleep. The demon turned half-lidded eyes to them and regarded them dispassionately.

"Oh, look," it said in a deep, bored-sounding voice, doubled in the way of demons. "Visitors. I'd entertain you but... too much effort involved."

"Good," Myranda said. "That will make you that much easier to kill."

"But why? Aren't you tired of all the violence in this world? I know I am."

The blonde woman lowered her weapons. She _was_ tired of it all. In fact, she felt weary all the way to her bones. Baby yawned next to her before laying down.

"Wouldn't you like to just lay down and... forget about all this? Leave it all behind?"

"Resist," Wynne said, sounding tired herself. "You must resist, else we are... all... lost...." Her voice trailed off as she lay down on the floor.

Myranda tried to shake the sleepiness from her thoughts—Wynne was right, she had to resist, but she was quickly forgetting why it was so important that she do so.

"Why do you fight?" the demon asked. "You deserve more.... You deserve a rest."

"I'll not listen to your lies, demon," Leliana said as she collapsed to her knees. "You have no... power over me...."

But was it lying? They needed a rest... they deserved it, after all they'd been through. And the bard obviously agreed, as she too lay down to sleep.

"You've gone through so much trouble," the voice cooed, "and for what? You must be tired. Wouldn't it be nice to lay down and rest?"

"Can't... keep eyes open," Alistair said, wavering. "Someone... pinch... me...." He, too, then collapsed to the floor, asleep.

The blades rattled on the stone floor as they fell from Myranda's fingers. She was so tired... surely a short rest wouldn't hurt. She lowered herself to her knees before stretching out on the hard stone floor... which suddenly felt as soft as a feather bed. As she slipped away to sleep, the deep soothing voice murmured to her.

"The world will go on without you."


	15. Dreaming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party survives the nightmare that is the Fade and fights a true blood mage.
> 
> PLEASE NOTE that I have changed the way the Fade map looks a bit. This is for ease of writing more than anything. So those of you who are playing the home game and looking at the map as it appears there, just note that they are different and I am aware of it. :)

**Chapter 15: Dreaming**

_"Deep into that darkness peering/long I stood there, wondering, fearing/doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before..." ~Edgar Allan Poe_

 

Myranda woke slowly to find herself in a lovely feather bed. She sat up, looking around the room at the lavish decor: the fine tapestries on the walls and the wonderfully soft-looking rug on the stone floor in front of a cheery fire. The air was fragrant and clean-smelling, like the garden in Highever after a gentle rain. It felt incredibly peaceful... but something was wrong.

"Hello?" she called, getting out of bed. She was still in her armor... had she been injured? She felt no worse for wear. But then how did she get here? It was all so fuzzy... she couldn't remember anything. She took up her weapons before heading out of the room to look for her companions. "Hello?" she called again. "Alistair? Baby? Anybody?" Where was everyone? She walked through the massive passageways, her steps echoing lightly. She looked into the various rooms on either side—all of them empty—before opening the door at the end of the corridor, gasping at the room that met her eyes.

It was a vast hall, the massive stone pillars capped and connected by beautiful pointed arches covered in gold and accented with precious gems that glittered in the light that streamed in from windows set high in the walls. The vaulted ceiling was magnificently high, the stone carved into intricate patterns to portray past battles. The floor was scattered with furs and rugs, and a large cluster of crystals stood off to one side, gleaming warmly. The room was hung with the flags of nearly all the nations in Thedas, with the standard of the Grey Wardens, a white griffon on a deep blue field, dominating them all. She wandered around the room, taking it all in. It was unbelievable... almost unreal in its incredible beauty.

She walked over to the strange crystal then. It was a cool blue color, but seemed to radiate a soft warmth and light. She stared at it for a moment before reaching out and touching it gently, wondering if it was real. Almost immediately she felt a shock course through her, a thrilling rush of pure, raw sensation. A sharp gasp escaped her and she pulled her hand quickly away, frightened by the intense reaction the strange crystal had caused in her. Whatever it was, it was real, and it was dangerous.

"Ah, there you are!"

Myranda turned at the familiar voice and nearly staggered backwards at the sight of the man walking into the hall. "Duncan?"

"I'm not disturbing you, am I?"

She shook her head, not daring to believe her eyes. "You should be dead!"

"Dead? Me?" Duncan laughed then, the sound ringing strangely in the room. "I have been close many times, but I never quite made it all the way." He laughed again and then smiled at her, a look she had never seen on his face. "I just wanted to make sure you were happy here in Weisshaupt."

"Weisshaupt?" She blinked at him, trying to comprehend what he was saying. "What am I doing here? Where's Alistair?"

"All the Grey Wardens are here, girl... Alistair too. This is our command post."

Myranda looked around the room again. "Why don't I remember arriving?"

"It was very late and you went straight to bed." He watched as she ran her eyes critically around the room. "These grand halls were built by the first Grey Wardens. Isn't it breathtaking?"

She looked back at him. "It's beautiful, but... why are we here when we should be battling darkspawn?"

Duncan looked surprised... another new look for him. "The darkspawn are gone, remember? You were there in that last great battle."

"What 'last great battle'?"

"It was a triumph for all of us, bringing down the archdemon and setting the underground lairs ablaze!"

Myranda shook her head, taking a step back from him. "No. That's not possible. I don't remember it at all." She was starting to feel funny... trying to remember made her head hurt.

"Of course it's possible! It's done!" He laughed then, though the sound had a sharp edge to it now that caused the hairs on the back of her neck to stand up.

"You're just exhausted from your journey... that's why you don't remember." He held out his hand to her. "Come, I'll show you around."

"No!" Myranda said, backing away from his hand as if it meant to burn her. "You're hiding something from me."

Duncan's face darkened with anger. "Foolish girl! I have given you so much and you cast it back in my face. Can you not be content with the peace I offer?"

Myranda drew her dagger. "You offer complacency," she said, "not peace."

"It seems only war and death will satisfy you." He drew his sword. "So be it! Have your war and your darkspawn! May they be your doom!"

She easily parried and ducked out of the way of three attacks before spinning behind the elder Grey Warden and pulling her dagger across his throat. She didn't feel badly about it—the real Duncan had been much more skilled than this mockery, and, she knew, would have gutted her on the third attack.

He fell forward and strangely vanished, and everything around her seemed to melt away. The beautiful room was gone, and she was in a grey expanse of nothingness except for what looked like a shaft of sunlight illuminating what appeared to be a small sundial.

"Who are you?"

Myranda turned at the sudden voice, her weapons lifting to fend off another attack. Behind her stood a man with short dark hair and dark eyes, clad in the robes of a mage. He had lifted his staff slightly—in attack or defense she wasn't sure—but made no other move.

"Where did you come from? Are you a demon?"

"What? No."

He stared at her a moment before relaxing. "No... I see that you're not. You're like me." He gave her a slightly ironic smile. "Congratulations on getting out of that trap."

Myranda felt like her mind was wrapped in linen—it was difficult to think clearly. "Trap?" she repeated, sure she sounded incredibly stupid.

"The demon traps everything that comes here in a dream it thinks they can't—or won't—try to leave," the mage explained. "I thought I'd escaped, too, but I've been wandering these empty, grey spaces for a lifetime."

"I'm sorry," Myranda said, "but who _are_ you?"

"My name is Niall," he told her. "I was trying to save the Circle when I encountered the sloth demon." The slight, sardonic smile returned to his lips. "I expect our experiences were similar."

"Niall?" she repeated, latching on to the vaguely familiar name. "The Tranquil at the stockroom mentioned you."

"Owain helped me greatly. I suppose I'll never be able to repay him." Niall shook his head sadly. "The Litany was our weapon against the blood mages' domination. But it's too late. Everyone's dead."

"Why are there so many blood mages here? I thought the practice was forbidden."

"I don't know," Niall said helplessly. "They must have been practicing in secret, even teaching others." He sighed heavily. "I knew these people, trusted them...."

Myranda started to feel an inkling of pity for the man as she sheathed her weapons. He'd been betrayed by colleagues and friends.

"The Litany was our only hope of saving the Circle. But now..." he shook his head. "This place drains you of everything... hope, feeling, life...."

 _Life!?_ "It's not too late," Myranda said, fighting back her panic. "It can't be. I'm sure of it."

"No," Niall said glumly. "There is no way out of here. You think there might be, but you'd be wrong." He pointed. "You see that pedestal there? I've studied the runes on it—runes that signify different islands of the sloth demon's domain."

"Show me," Myranda said.

The mage sighed and led the way over to the pedestal. "If you place your hand on it, you can see the map in your mind."

The blonde woman took a deep breath and closed her eyes before resting her hand on the strange pedestal. Almost immediately an image came to her: a strange sort of map with five circles forming a larger circle. Four concentric rings surrounded another circle, placed directly in the center of the map.

"Do you see the map?"

"Yes."

"The sloth demon itself is on the center island," Niall said, "but you can't get there. The five islands around the center somehow form a protective ward. I thought I was getting somewhere when I figured that out, and I went to each island in turn only to have my hopes dashed."

Myranda opened her eyes to look at him and the map vanished from her mind.

"There's always an obstacle. You'll see the path but be unable to get to it, and it taunts you and drives you mad."

"Could my companions be on one of the islands?" She had to find Alistair and the others.

The mage shrugged. "I... I don't know. There are many dreamers. You might find a way to reach them through the islands... if you're lucky."

"Tell me about the protective ward and the sloth demon."

"I don't know much about the ward except that there is one. I think the sloth demon has placed lesser demons on each of the islands. I've seen them... they take different shapes but they're there. Defeating them may be the only way to reach the sloth demon."

"That doesn't sound difficult."

"You would think that, wouldn't you? But you have to get to them first. As for the sloth demon..." his voice trailed off and he shrugged. "I can't say I know much. You couldn't say we were friends, really."

Myranda sighed heavily. It was starting to seem hopeless. _No_! She couldn't lose hope! "Isn't there anything you can tell me? I'm no mage... I don't have any idea how these things work."

"Demons have their own hierarchies," Niall said. "They play their own games and mortals serve as... pawns, perhaps even bargaining chips."

"So they're like nobles that way."

Niall blinked at her and then, suddenly, a small smile crossed his lips. "You could say that, yes. Sloth demons would be like banns in that way... fairly low on the ladder. The only ones below them are rage demons. Desire demons are more powerful, and pride demons are more powerful still."

"The arls and teyrns of the Fade."

"Of the demons, anyway. The demon keeping us here probably rules this entire section of the Fade. It'll not let us go easily... if at all. It would take fighting and killing it."

That seemed to be the answer: if she wanted to escape, she would have to defeat the demon. "You mentioned obstacles before?" she said.

"Yes... obstacles and mad dream things—a river of flame before a portal, or a door that shows you freedom through a keyhole which no key will fit...." The frustration and utter hopelessness of the endeavor seemed to wash over him again. "I once found a passageway smaller than my hand with a mouse going to and fro through it. Silly thing fled before I could question it."

Myranda blinked at this sudden madness. "Why would you talk to a mouse?"

"Because almost everyone here is a dreamer," Niall said, "except for the spirits and the demons, I suppose. Each dreamer may know things another may not. The mouse could have told me what lay beyond the tiny passage, or how to get there... even how I might make myself small like him, and crawl through myself."

"If one could become small enough to take one path, perhaps there are similar ways to walk the others," Myranda said, thinking out loud. Surely that was the answer. "Do you know where the mouse went?"

He waved in a general direction to her right.

"I'll be back."

"Don't mind me, then."

Myranda wandered off in the general direction Niall had indicated. The swirling grey nothingness was starting to take shape around her: floor, walls, corners. She was sure she could have been imagining it, however.

After the third corner, she heard a terrified squeak and ran toward the sound. A lesser demon of some sort was holding a struggling rodent. She whistled sharply, drawing the thing's attention.

"Care to pick on something your own size?" she challenged, drawing her weapons.

The lesser demon screeched and lunged at her, an attack she easily parried. A few short minutes later, she ran her sword through the creature, causing it to shriek and vanish.

Myranda turned to look at the mouse, which eyed her warily. "Are you all right?" she asked as she slowly knelt.

The mouse twitched its nose at her.

"I... I was wondering if you could help me," she said, feeling increasingly more foolish as she spoke to the rodent. "I need to know if you could help me find a way out."

The mouse blinked.

Myranda groaned and dropped her face into her hands. "Ugh, I knew this wouldn't work. Mice can't talk!"

"I'm not really a mouse."

Myranda looked up, startled.

"No, really," it squeaked. "I-I think I was a mage... trapped by that demon you killed."

"I have to find the sloth demon that controls this part of the Fade," she said. "Could you help me?"

"How? I'm stuck as a mouse... although..." the voice faded before, suddenly, the rodent shifted into the form of a young woman. She looked down at herself, then back at Myranda. "I'm me again! I can't believe it!"

"Can you help me?" Myranda asked her. "I need to get to the sloth demon."

"I could go through the holes, but the demons don't follow me back through them. Thank goodness they don't!" she said. "I would've been dead long ago!"

Myranda fought against her despair and hopelessness. "So I'm stuck here? Forever?"

"Well... maybe I could teach you how to turn into a mouse," the other young woman said.

Green eyes blinked. "Is that possible? I'm no mage."

"I think so," the young mage said. "This is the Fade, so I suppose anything's possible."

 

 

It was a long, tedious process. Myranda felt she spent a lifetime wandering the five islands, moving back and forth trying to maneuver around various obstacles, finding herself transforming from one form to another with increasing ease but with no little nausea. The less she thought about what she was doing, the less it made her head spin.

An eternity later, she stood panting softly, her battle with the last of the lesser demons done. She had searched every corner of every room on every island, but to no avail. She had not found Alistair, or Baby, or Leliana, or Wynne. Where could they be, then?

She went back to the sundial-like pedestal and looked at the map. The outer ring of the concentric circles was brighter than it had been, and she concentrated all her willpower on it. As had happened so many times before, she felt movement, though her feet remained stationary. When the feeling of motion stopped, she opened her eyes.

She stood in a familiar room: her bedroom at Highever castle. A fire crackled merrily in the fireplace, and Baby lay curled up on the worn green rug that had been his bed since the day he became too big to sleep in the bed with her. He was snoring softly.

"Baby," she called, walking over to him. "Here, boy. Wake up now."

The snores stopped abruptly and he lifted his head, yawning hugely. He looked at her then and barked happily, hopping to his feet.

"There's my good boy," Myranda said, kneeling and rubbing him, barely noticing as the room dissolved around them as she hugged him around the neck. "Want to help me find the others?"

He barked again.

"Good." She stood and looked around before spotting the pedestal as the dog whined. "There it is. Let's go, Baby." She looked at where the mabari had been only to find him gone. "Baby?" She looked around. "Baby?!" She searched the area wildly only to find that he was, indeed, gone. But where?

Seeing no recourse though her stomach churned with anxiety, she made her way to the sundial-like pedestal and lay her hand upon it. Closing her eyes revealed the map again, only now the second circle in the central series was now illuminated. Taking a deep breath, she focused on that circle and felt herself moving, an otherworldly wind blowing around her.

When she opened her eyes, she was outside the Circle tower. The sky was very dark and, though no rain was falling, thunder rolled menacingly around her. The waters of the lake churned with the wind, crashing upon the rock that held the black tower and made the going treacherous.

As she circled the base of the tower, she finally came across dozens of bodies, laying scattered around on the ground. They had been dead a short time, due to the subtlety of the stench, but long enough that the blood no longer poured from their veins. A lone figure knelt amidst the carnage, tending to one of the bodies with an overwhelming sense of despair. She was an older woman clad in a mage's robe, her short grey hair pulled back away from her face in a short tail.

"Wynne!" Myranda cried, running over to the mage. As she approached, she could hear the other woman speaking softly to herself.

"Maker forgive me... I failed them all. They died and I did not stop it."

"But they're not dead yet," Myranda said, circling around in front of her. "The Circle can still be saved."

Wynne looked up at her dispassionately. "How can you say that when you are faced with this?"

"What are you talking about?"

The mage made a wide, sweeping gesture with her arm. "Death. Can you not see it? It's all around us."

Myranda looked around at the bodies. "You're in the Fade," she said, kneeling. "This is a dream."

"Why was I spared, if not to help them?" Wynne asked, apparently not having heard what the Grey Warden said. "What use is my life now that I have failed in the task that was given me? These were my apprentices... I was responsible for them..."

"Wynne, you're not listening to me!" Myranda cried, grabbing the older woman's shoulders.

"Leave me to my grief," the mage said, shrugging off her hands. "I shall bury their bones, scatter their ashes to the four winds, and mourn their passing until I too am dead."

"You have to fight this feeling, whatever it is."

Wynne looked at her, her eyes cold. "Your blatant disregard for the souls of the dead strikes me as being utterly inappropriate."

"But they're not dead yet! Damn it, Wynne, listen to me! This is a trick!"

"Why must you make this more painful?" The cold look turned to a glare. "And where were _you_ when this happened? I trusted you as an ally and you were nowhere to be found."

"I am the only thing here that's real," Myranda said. "You have to ignore everything else."

The mage sighed heavily in frustration. "I do not know what this will accomplish, but I will do this, if it will satisfy you."

"Please... please try."

Wynne closed her eyes before, suddenly, an ill expression crossed her face. "It is... difficult... to focus. It feels as though something is... stopping me from concentrating. I have never had so much trouble...." She lifted a hand to her eyes and shook her head a little. "Perhaps some time away from this place will help me think clearly."

"That's a good idea," the younger woman said, standing and pulling the mage to her feet. "Being away from here should make you feel better."

"Don't leave us, Wynne," a voice from by their feet said suddenly.

Both women looked down to find one of the dead mages now had his eyes open and was staring at them, reaching toward the mage.

"We don't want to be alone," he said.

Wynne backed up a few steps. "Holy Maker!" she swore. "Stay away foul creature!"

Myranda drew her sword and dagger. "More demons to kill, it seems."

"Stay, Wynne," another apprentice, this time a young woman, said as she sat up. "Sleep soundly in the comforting embrace of the earth."

"Do not fight it," a third urged. "You belong here, with us."

"N-no," Wynne said, obviously shaken. "Not yet. My task is not yet done... it is not time yet."

"Come," the first apprentice said, standing and reaching out to the elder mage, "come away to your rest."

Myranda slashed at the undead apprentice, cutting off its arms and causing it to emit a demonic yell of rage. This was literally cut off in the next moment when she put her dagger through its throat. The other demons snarled and swarmed her, though she managed to fight them off.

She managed to sneak a glance over her shoulder at Wynne, to find the elder woman had backed away from the main battle and was speaking—again apparently to herself—and lifting her hands over her head. The sky darkened as the clouds swirled around them, the thunder booming louder and louder.

"Myranda!" Wynne called. "Get out of there!"

Myranda looked up and jumped back as a great ball of fire fell from the swirling dark cloud above her. She was knocked back further as it hit, incinerating the lesser demons instantly. She watched with a morbid fascination as the 'undead' demonic apprentices screamed and disappeared one by one as fire rained down on them, getting to her feet slowly. "Is it over?" she asked after the fiery rain stopped.

"Yes," Wynne said, lowering her hands. "Thank the Maker for you, Myranda."

The Grey Warden smiled a little. "I'm just glad I was able to find you. I don't know how you can be in constant contact with this place—it's horridly confusing."

She laughed gently and returned the smile, though it faded again almost immediately. "Wait... what's happening? Where are you going?"

Myranda watched in shocked horror as the mage started to disappear. "Wynne? Wynne!"

The mage vanished along with the tower, leaving her again in the swirling grey nothingness—alone but for the ever-present pedestal. She made her way toward it and consulted the map again through her closed eyes, noting that one more of the circles was now lit. She took a breath and mentally moved herself to that place.

When she opened her eyes, she found herself in a small but lovely chantry chapel. A deep, plush red carpet runner lay on the floor between the benches and led to the altar, where an older woman stood over a young redhead. The latter was kneeling, rocking back and forth slightly in the way of those deep in prayer, her hands clasped in front of her face. As Myranda approached, she could hear the words of the Chant of Light.

"Blessed art thou who exists in the sight of the Maker. Blessed art thou who seeks His forgiveness. Blessed—"

"Leliana... what are you doing?"

The young bard looked up, obviously startled. "What?" She stared at Myranda for a moment. "Who are you?"

It was Myranda's turn to be startled.

"I beg you," the older woman said, "do not disturb the girl's meditations."

Leliana turned to her. "Revered Mother, I do not know this person."

Myranda took a small step back. "Don't know...? We're friends, don't you remember?"

Leliana shook her head. "I'm sorry, but I–I don't know what you're talking about."

"Please, do not vex her," the figure of the revered mother said. "She needs quiet and solitude to calm her mind and heal her heart."

Myranda ignored her. "Leliana," she said, "listen to me, please. This isn't real."

The redhead blinked in confusion. "Isn't real? I don't understand."

"You don't have to understand. Just... trust me when I say it isn't real." She watched the other young woman as she tried to comprehend. "Don't you remember why you left the cloister?"

Blue eyes blinked again before narrowing slightly in thought. "I remember... there was a sign...."

"That's right."

The figure of the revered mother sighed, as if at a small child. "Leliana, we have discussed this... 'sign' of yours. The Maker does not care to interfere in the affairs of mortals. This 'vision' was likely the work of demons."

Myranda snorted. "Yes, you would know all about demons, being one yourself," she said acidly. She looked back at the bard then. "Don't listen to her. Trust in what you know."

"The Maker cares for us," Leliana said to the older woman. "I believe He misses His wayward children as much as we miss Him. My vision may not be from Him, but it guides me to do what is right." Her eyes narrowed again, this time with suspicion. "My revered mother knew this," she said. "I don't know who _you_ are, but you are not her."

"She's a demon in disguise," Myranda told her, "here to deceive you."

"Let us leave," Leliana said, turning to her. "My head has not yet cleared, but there is something familiar about you, and I believe I... trust you." She smiled suddenly. "As odd as that may sound," she added with an embarrassed laugh.

Myranda returned the smile. "That's not odd at all. We know each other well."

"This is your home," the figure of the older woman said complacently, "your refuge. Do you truly wish to leave the comfort of this place behind? Stay, and know peace."

"There is no need," Leliana said. "I carry the peace of the Chantry in my heart."

The revered mother's face darkened with anger. "You are going nowhere, girl. I will not permit it."

"You can't command her any longer, demon," Myranda said. "She is free."

"No... she is ours, now and forever!" The demon knocked the bard away and turned back to Myranda just in time to block the attack from the Grey Warden's sword.

Myranda lashed out with a vicious kick, sending the figure stumbling backwards. She lunged forward and buried her sword in its chest. The demon roared with anger, shifting out of the revered mother's form to its true shape before disappearing.

"Holy Maker!" Leliana cried. "She... she was a..."

"A demon, yes." She sheathed her weapons and turned to the other woman. "Are you all right?" she asked, reaching down to help Leliana to her feet.

The redhead groaned slightly as she stood. "My head feels heavy," she said, lifting one hand to cradle her head, "like I've just woken up from a terrible nightmare."

"Well, in a sense you have."

Leliana gave her a slight sheepish grin. "I believe we had... some task to accomplish. Let us be on our way." She suddenly looked startled. "Wait, what's happening to me?"

"Leliana! Oh, Maker, not again!" She could only watch helplessly as the bard disappeared from sight, leaving her again in the shifting nothingness. There was nothing else she could do here.

She walked over to the cursed navigation marker and laid her hand over it, closing her eyes. The map appeared again in her mind, but the next circle, closer still to the middle, was now illuminated. She bit her lip, her heart pounding in her chest as she focused her energy, all her thoughts on that mark. An otherworldly wind blew around her and she felt as if she were again moving, though her feet stayed still.

All at once she stopped, and her eyes snapped open at the suddenness of it. She was in Denerim, in the midst of the busy Market District. What was she doing here? And where was she supposed to go?

"Myranda? Is that you?"

She turned at the voice, a smile crossing her lips as her heart sang in her breast. "Alistair! Oh, thank the Maker!" She ran to him and nearly kissed him out of sheer joy.

He smiled at her, catching her hands. "I was just thinking about you... isn't that a marvelous coincidence?"

"I'm so glad to see you. I thought something may have happened to you."

"What?" he asked, looking confused. "No! No, I'm fine."

"Thank goodness," she said, relieved.

"So what happened?" he asked, tucking her hand formally into his elbow and leading her toward one of the houses. "I expected you a lot sooner than this."

She looked slightly chagrinned. "I... got lost a few times. This place is a little confusing, you know."

Alistair laughed a little. "It hasn't been _that_ long since you've been to Denerim... you can't have forgotten already."

Myranda's face immediately fell. Oh, Maker... not him, too. She pulled away from him and backed up a few steps.

He turned to her and smiled. "Anyway, I'm glad you're here now." He gestured to a woman who had exited the house and walked up behind him. "This is my sister, Goldanna," he said by way of introduction. "These are her children," he went on, gesturing to the four that ran by him, playing about his feet, "and there's more about somewhere." He beamed at her. "We're one big happy family, at long last!"

She never thought seeing him so happy would make her heart wrench in her chest. It was sickening, the hold this demon had on him. "Get away from them, Alistair," she said. "This is a trick."

Alistair looked at her, confused. "What are you talking about?"

"Well, Alistair, is your friend staying for supper?" Goldanna asked sweetly.

"Say you'll stay," Alistair said. "Goldanna's a great cook. Maybe she'll make her mince pie." He looked back at the figure of his sister. "You can, can't you?"

"Of course, dear brother." The woman looked at Myranda, a smug, demonic smile on her lips. "Anything for you."

Goldanna's face was suddenly that of the desire demon Myranda thought she'd killed before. The look and the way the last comment had been purred made her stomach clench and a hot poisonous rage shoot through her veins. "She's just a demon in disguise," she said fiercely, drawing her sword. "Don't believe any of this."

Alistair looked shocked and hurt. "How can you say that about Goldanna? She's... she's the soul of goodness!" He gave her an odd look. "You're acting really strangely," he said.

Myranda took a breath, trying to think. She had to come up with another way to convince him. "Alistair, I want you to think about this and how you got here," she said. "Think carefully."

Alistair sighed as if giving in to a childish request. "All right, if it makes you happy." He shook his head. "I...." His voice trailed off and he suddenly looked confused. "It's a little fuzzy... that's strange..."

The figure of Goldanna started to look nervous. "Alistair, come and have some tea."

He held up a hand to her and shook his head again. "No... wait." He narrowed his eyes, obviously trying to recall the memories. "I remember a... tower."

"Yes," Myranda said, nodding.

"The Circle... it was under attack... there were demons."

"Yes, that's right."

He thought for a few more long moments before finally shaking his head. "That's all I really remember."

"That's when we got trapped in the Fade," Myranda said, "where we are now."

"The Fade?" Alistair looked at her in shock. "A-are you saying... this is a-a dream?"

She frowned. "Yes, Alistair. This is a dream."

He looked around. "But it's so real..."

"Of course it's real!" 'Goldanna' said harshly. "Now wash up before supper and I—" She was cut off by the simple expedient of Myranda pointing her sword at her.

"Be silent," the blonde warned.

Alistair looked between the two women, an uneasy look on his face. "Something doesn't feel quite right here," he said. "I... I think I have to... go."

Myranda smiled gently at him and held out her hand. "Come with me then," she said.

He looked at her for a moment before the confusion faded to a complete, wholehearted trust. Reaching out, he took her hand gently in his.

Myranda smiled, her fingers wrapping around his hand as she took a step toward him.

"No!" the figure of Goldanna shouted in a demonic voice. "He is ours, and I'd rather see him dead than free!"

"You'll have to kill me first!" Myranda said, stepping in front of him.

"A minor obstacle, easily overcome. But as you wish, mortal." The market district around them vanished, leaving them in what appeared now to be a simple paved courtyard.

Myranda lifted her sword to block as the desire demon lunged at her. "Get the others," she shouted to Alistair as she dodged and parried every attack from the demon. The demon fought viciously, fueled by its anger at Myranda yet again interrupting, but Myranda's will was stronger. She would not give him up to this detestable creature—she would die first!

"I told you I would kill you if you touched him," she snarled. "And now you... will... die!" She ran her sword into the demon's chest, driving it in all the way to the hilt.

The desire demon screamed in fury. The sound stopped in the next instant, however, as Myranda sliced her dagger across its neck, severing the head from the body. The remains slid off her blade and slowly vanished.

She allowed a sneer to cross her lips. "Bitch," she spat, "I told you."

"G-Goldanna?"

Myranda looked over her shoulder, seeing Alistair staring at disappearing body of the desire demon and shaking his head in horror.

"I can't believe it. How did I not see this earlier?"

The other Grey Warden sheathed her weapons. "You're in the Fade," she said as she turned toward him. "It isn't like the real world. The demons will make you believe anything if you let them."

"Yes..." He suddenly looked incredibly embarrassed. "Uh, well. Try not to tell everyone how easily fooled I was."

She smiled. "Everyone else was easily fooled, too," she told him.

He smiled back at her, obviously reassured by the news. "So are we going now?" he asked. Suddenly, he looked confused. "Wait, where are you going?"

Green eyes widened in horror as he started to disappear.

"What's happening to me?" He reached for her when she stretched out her hand, only to find his fingers completely passed through her palm. "Hey!"

"Alistair!" Myranda screamed. "No! _Alistair_!"

But he was gone.

She stood, trembling in her fear and terror before she took a deep breath, hardening it within her. She strode determinedly back to the navigation marker. Putting her hand on it, she closed her eyes and saw immediately in her mind that the middle point on the labyrinth was now lit. Concentrating on it, she again felt herself moving.

When she opened her eyes, she was facing a massive creature: the Sloth Demon. The very sight of the thing that had taken her friends from her caused an uncontrollable rage to flood her brain.

"What do we have here?" it asked, sounding bored. "A rebellious minion? An escaped slave?" It laughed then, condescending and contemptuous. "My, my... but you do have some gall."

"Coming from you, I'll take that as a compliment."

The laughter and air of amusement faded. "But playtime is over. You all have to go back now."

Myranda blinked. All? She looked behind her to find her companions suddenly standing there.

"Oh, here I am!" Alistair said. He looked at her. "And there _you_ are! You just disappeared." He looked confused, then shrugged and smiled. "Well, no matter!"

Myranda smiled in relief, lifting one hand to cover his as he rested it on her shoulder as she turned back to the demon. Her other hand went to Baby as the dog moved to stand next to her, growling at the Sloth Demon.

"You tried to keep us apart," Leliana said, also taking a step toward Myranda. "You led us from each other because you fear us, don't you?"

"You will not hold us, demon," Wynne said. "We found each other in this place and you cannot stand against us."

"If you go back quietly, I'll do better this time," the Sloth Demon promised. "I'll make you much happier." It looked at Myranda and Alistair and seemed to smile. "I'll even allow you to be with your love."

Myranda's eyes widened and she fought the urge to look back at Alistair, noticing how he tensed and slid his hand from her shoulder. She tried not to show how tempting the offer was. But it wouldn't be real. It would only be a dream... and she didn't want it to be a dream. "I don't want anything you offer," she said.

"I made you happy and safe," the demon complained. "I gave you peace. I did my best for you and you say you want to leave?"

"If that was the best you could do, I'm terribly disappointed."

"As am I," Wynne said.

Baby barked in agreement.

"Can't you think about someone other than yourself?" the demon asked. "I'm hurt... so very, very hurt."

"Oh, cry me a river," Myranda said acidly.

"We will do nothing you say," Leliana added.

"You wish to battle me?" the Sloth Demon asked, apparently in surprise. "So be it."

The atmosphere around them changed suddenly, becoming much more tense and hostile.

"You will learn to bow to your betters, mortals!"

The fight raged, with the demon continually shifting forms to try to trick them into surrender. It almost worked a few times until Wynne locked the creature in a block of ice.

"Now what?" Leliana asked around her soft panting, backing up.

As if in answer to her question, another spell shot through the air from behind the group, striking the frozen cube directly in the center and shattering both the ice and the demon within.

Myranda turned and was surprised to find Niall behind them. "Niall?"

Niall stared at her, looking as surprised as she felt.

"Niall!" Wynne cried. "Thank the Maker!"

"Wynne," he said, looking at her. "I... don't believe it. You defeated the demon. I never thought..." He looked back at Myranda then. "I never expected you to free yourself... to free us both."

"Well, I had a little help," she said with a smile.

"Niall, what's happened?" Wynne asked him. "What about all these blood mages?"

"I wish I had answers, Wynne," he said, "but I just don't know. They must have been practicing in secret." He frowned. "When you return, take the Litany of Adralla from my... body. It will protect you from the worst of the blood magic."

"Your body?" Myranda repeated.

"I cannot go with you," he said to her. "I have been here far too long." A small, sad smile crossed his lips. "For you it will have been an afternoon's nap. Your body won't have wasted away in the real world while your spirit lay in the hands of a demon." His smile had faded as he spoke.

"Do you really think you're going to die?" Leliana asked. "Isn't there something we can do?"

Niall shook his head. "Every minute I was here, the sloth demon was feeding off of me, using my life to fuel the nightmares of this realm. There is so little of me left..."

Myranda frowned. "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm sorry I couldn't rescue us earlier.

"I do not fear what may come," the mage said. "They say we return to the Maker in death, and that isn't such a terrible thing." He sighed. "My only regret is that I could not save the Circle." He looked back at Myranda then. "But you," he said, "you can." He walked over and took her hands. "Take the Litany off my body, when you return. It is important!"

"I will do this," the blonde woman assured him.

Niall nodded. "Thank you," he said. "The Circle is all that matters now."

He was starting to fade away, just as her friends had done before. But unlike all the other times, the Fade itself was disappearing as well. Through the mists, she heard Niall's voice.

"Thank you and goodbye... friend."

 

 

Myranda felt stiff and sore and cold. She didn't know if she'd be able to move at all. She didn't _want_ to move, though she could feel the stone floor sucking the warmth from her body.

Suddenly she heard a concerned whine and felt a hand on her shoulder: slightly timid, but warm and gentle.

"Myranda?"

She opened her eyes at the worried voice and looked up at Alistair, smiling as a relieved expression crossed his face. "You all right?" she murmured.

"I'm fine." He put his hands on her shoulders and gently pulled her up to a sitting position.

She groaned, leaning back against him as she brought a hand up to her head. "Ugh. What a horrid nightmare. I feel awful... and exhausted."

"Are you going to make it?"

"Oh, I'll make it. I'll be fine in just a moment." She reached over and petted Baby as he pawed at her knee. "Hey, Baby. Are you all right?"

He barked in affirmation.

"Here it is," Wynne said from nearby, pulling a scroll from the robes of one of the dead mages.

"Is that the Litany?" Myranda asked.

"Yes, I have it."

"Good. Then we should get going. We still have to find the first enchanter." She glanced back at Alistair before he helped her to her feet. She stood still for a moment, testing her legs before heading for the stairs. "Let's go."

They climbed the stairs to the next level to find it was much smaller than the floor below: only one room with the two stairwells—the one from which they just emerged, and another leading to another, higher level. This room was dominated by a shimmering pink cube, in which a figure appeared to be kneeling.

"Look," Leliana said, pointing. "Is there someone over there? Oh, I hope they're still alive."

"Maker's breath!" Wynne said as she walked around the cube. "That's Cullen! Oh the poor boy..."

The templar looked up as they circled the shimmering box, standing and glaring at them despite the wild look in his eyes. "This trick again?" he asked. "I know what you are. It won't work. I will stay strong...."

"The boy is exhausted," Wynne said to Myranda. "And this cage... I've never seen anything like it." She turned back to the trapped young man. "Rest easy," she said gently, "help is here."

"Enough visions," Cullen said. "If anything in you is human... kill me now and stop this game."

"He's delirious," Myranda said.

"He's been tortured," Leliana added, "and has probably been denied food and water. I can tell." She reached for her canteen. "Here, I have a skin of—"

"Don't touch me!" Cullen shouted. "Stay away!"

Leliana exchanged a wary look with Myranda and Wynne.

"Filthy blood mages," Cullen snarled, "getting in my head! I will not break... I'd rather die!"

"You're not going to die," Myranda said. "Not if I can help it."

" _Silence_!" Cullen commanded. "I'll not listen to anything you say. Now begone!" He closed his eyes and held out his hand before a burst of purplish light pulsed through the cage.

"That's a cleansing technique," Alistair said softly to Myranda. "It's supposed to remove all spell effects."

"So he thinks we're some sort of... figments of his imagination?" she murmured.

"Rather that we are here, but summoned by magic."

Cullen, in the meantime, had lowered his hand. Slowly, he opened his eyes and stared at them, blinking in bewilderment. "Still here? But... that's always worked before. I close my eyes, but you are still here when I open them."

"We're real, Cullen," Wynne said soothingly, "and we're here to help you."

"Don't blame me for being cautious," he said. "The voices... the images... so real...." He shuddered visibly.

"Let's see if we can't get you out of this cage," Myranda said, reaching toward the shimmering wall. As soon as her fingertips touched it, however, she felt a shock of something like lightning course through her and pulled violently away. She stumbled back into Alistair, whose hands went immediately to her shoulders to steady her... and stayed there.

"How... how did you get here?" Cullen asked. "Did Greagoir send you?"

"The Knight Commander sent us, yes," Alistair said.

"In a sense," Myranda amended.

"Good," Cullen said. "Kill Uldred. Kill them all for what they've done."

"Surely there is a less drastic measure we could take," Leliana said.

"They caged us like animals," Cullen told her, "looked for ways to break us. I'm the only one left...." He shuddered again. "They turned some into... monsters. And there was nothing I could do." He looked back up at Myranda. "Kill them," he said vehemently. "Kill them all... you must!"

"His hatred of mages is so intense," Alistair said softly, with no little awe. "The memory of his friends' deaths is still fresh in his mind."

"I want to save everyone who can possibly be saved," Myranda said to Cullen. "Including you."

"Are you really saving anyone by taking this risk?" Cullen asked. "To ensure this horror is ended... to guarantee that no abominations or blood mages live, you must kill everyone."

"I cannot and will not decide on that before seeing what's going on," she said.

"That is your choice to make, but I beg you to consider what I have to say." The young templar stumbled to the shimmering wall. "You cannot tell maleficarum by sight. Just one could influence the mind of a king, of a grand cleric."

"I do not fear maleficarum," Myranda said. "They should fear me. Especially as I've killed nearly all I've faced."

"Too bad it hasn't been all," Alistair grumbled.

"Hush," she whispered.

"You may be confident in your ability to stand up to them," Cullen said, "but what about the rest of us? Will you protect us from them?"

"Where are Irving and the other mages?" Myranda demanded.

"What others?" the templar asked. "What are you talking about?"

"Irving and the other mages who fought Uldred," Wynne said. "Where are they?"

"They are in the Harrowing Chamber." He looked toward the stairs leading to the room above. "The sounds coming out from there... oh, Maker...."

"We must hurry," Wynne told Myranda. "They are in grave danger, I am sure of it."

"You're right," the Grey Warden agreed.

"You can't save them," Cullen said. "You don't know what they've become. They've been surrounded b-by blood mages." Another sneer crossed his lips and he clenched his fists. "Blood mages whose wicked fingers snake into your mind and corrupt your thoughts." He looked back at her. "You have to end it, now, before it's too late."

"Stay safe," Myranda said, drawing her sword. "It will be over soon."

Cullen frowned and shook his head. "No one ever listens," he muttered, backing away toward the center of his shimmering cage again, "not until it's far too late." He looked at her again. "Maker turn His gaze on you," he said. "I hope your compassion hasn't doomed us all."

"Let's go," Myranda said, heading toward the stairs.

Alistair grabbed her arm before she reached the top. "Myranda."

She turned and looked back at him.

"Listen, whatever you do, try not to let yourself get wounded."

"That's a tall order," she said.

"Uldred's a blood mage," he said, frowning. "He uses blood—his own or others'—for power. If he gets access to your blood, he can control you." He paused, staring into her eyes. "If he has access to your blood, he has access to your life force," he murmured. "And I don't want that to happen."

"I have a trained templar on my side. How bad could it be?"

"No jokes, Myranda. This is serious." He looked at her for a few more long moments. "Just... promise me you'll be careful."

Myranda saw the intensity of his concern reflected in the depths of his eyes and managed a small smile. "I'll be careful," she promised, laying her hand over his. "I will if you will."

He returned her smile, giving her arm a gentle squeeze.

"Sound advice for all of us," Wynne said.

Alistair blinked and looked back at mage and bard, the latter of whom had an intriguing smirk on her lips. "Yes," he said, taking his hand from the other Grey Warden's arm. "Of course, I... I meant for all of us to be careful."

"Right then," Myranda said, turning back to the door at the top of the stairs. "Shall we?" Without waiting for an answer, she lifted her foot and kicked out as hard as she could, breaking it open and rushing into the room beyond.

Inside a completely bald mage was standing in front of a row of cages similar to Cullen's, only the walls were brighter. These also held older mages—surely Irving and the other elders. He turned to them as they strode into the room, and only then did Myranda notice the blood that soaked the front of the man's robes, though he seemed as mindless of it as if it was part of the cloth. "Ah..." he said, "look what we have here, Irving: an intruder."

Myranda glanced at the nearest cage to find the mage inside was looking at her in surprise... and hope.

"I bid you welcome," the bald man said, holding out his arms in a mocking gesture of greeting. "Care to join in our... revels?"

"Uldred, I presume?"

"Oh... very observant."

"What have you done to Irving and the others?" Wynne challenged.

Uldred looked at her in apparent surprise. "Well, well, Wynne... I'm quite impressed you're still alive." He looked over the small group. "I'm impressed that all of you are still alive. Unfortunately, that must mean you killed my servants." He sighed with mocking heaviness. "Ah, well, they are probably better off dying in the service of their betters than living with the terrible responsibility of independence."

"You'll soon follow your servants," Myranda said.

"Wait, wait, wait," the blood mage said calmly, holding up his hands in a placating gesture, "let's not be hasty. I'm trying to have a civilized conversation here."

"I do not converse with abominations."

"Fight, if you must. It will just make my victory all the sweeter."

"Arrogant much?" Myranda taunted.

"Ah, you think you have a numerical advantage," Uldred said mockingly. "Shall we even the numbers, then?" He began chanting a strange string of words, though he stumbled when Wynne, who had moved nearer to the cages, began chanting over him. Uldred looked at her and glared. "The Litany of Adralla."

Wynne smirked, but did not stop her chanting.

"Very well." He looked at Alistair. "Then... perhaps..."

There was a tense moment where the mage stared pensively at Alistair, who narrowed his eyes and stared back. It was a mental game, one that apparently Alistair won by the surprised look on Uldred's face.

"Well," he said. "Your mind is stronger than it seems. The only others I've found with such mental strength have been..." his voice trailed off and his eyebrows lowered. "Templar." He said the word like an obscenity.

Alistair smirked. "Trained, yes."

"Then suppose I make you fight one of your friends? The cute little redhead? Or...?" The mage looked at Myranda. "Perhaps the pretty blonde? Could you find it in yourself to kill her, or would you let her kill you to spare her? What better way to die than by the hand of a beautiful woman?"

Alistair stepped between them and pointed his sword at the other man. "You will not touch her," he said. The words were almost a snarl... a vicious promise of pain and death if he tried.

Uldred narrowed his eyes again, looking as if he was piecing together bits of information in his head.

"I've heard enough," Myranda said.

"You'll not control us," Leliana agreed, "and we will take you down."

The two led the charge with Baby against the mage, attacking with four blades and teeth. All the weapons, however, struck against a magical barrier.

They were blasted back by a surge of magic, which also separated them. Myranda slid to a stop on the stone floor before looking around. Baby barked from a corner, straining toward her, but apparently stuck. Leliana was then suddenly engulfed in a bubble of red magic... a bubble that quickly began to contract down on her. Alistair had seemingly recovered more quickly from the blast—or had not been blown as far—and had engaged the mage one-on-one. He slashed at the mage, but the other man backed up at the last second and the tip of the sword only grazed him, forming a shallow gash in the mage's stomach. Uldred smirked and brought his right hand to the wound before waving his arm back toward Alistair. The templar flew backward as if he had been physically struck, landing on his back hard.

A sharp gasp escaped Myranda before she could stop it. Enraged, she rushed the mage, sword lifted to strike. Uldred turned to meet the attack, however, the blood from his injury forming into a cord that wrapped around her wrist and jerked her forward as she tried to stop, pulling her off balance. She spun past him and slammed back into the wall, stars dancing in front of her eyes with the force. She groaned, her weapons falling from her fingers before she slid down toward the floor.

"Myranda!" Alistair rushed over and knelt next to her. "Myranda!"

"I'm all right," she said, shaking her head. "I'll be all right in a second." She looked up at him in time to see the look of immense relief and the slight smile cross his face.

Uldred looked between the two Grey Wardens before he smiled cruelly. "Ah... I see," he said, drawing their attention. "Interesting." He looked at Alistair again. "There's more than one way to destroy a templar," he said.

"Enough of this," Myranda said, taking up her blades and getting to her feet. She looked at Alistair. "Get Leliana," she told him before looking back at Uldred. "The only one who will be destroyed is you!" She rushed toward him again, striking out with sword and dagger, trying to cut out his throat or any of his vital organs. Each blow was countered by the mage's staff or a magical shield until he blocked both her blades above their heads. He smirked derisively at her until she spit in his face, and then he scowled and slapped her across the face hard. He then lashed out at her with a burst of magic, knocking her backwards into Alistair, who was moving to help her, sending them both crashing to the floor.

Myranda shook her head as she sat up, looking around at her companions. Baby started to race toward her, but part of the floor suddenly glowed green where he stepped, catching him in a sort of trap that again left him unable to move. The bubble of magic that had surrounded Leliana was gone and she was on her knees, but soon collapsed back to the floor. "Leliana!" She looked up at Alistair and the look of pure horror on his face as he looked at her made her heart stop. It was only then that she felt a searing burn at her shoulder. Looking down, she saw that there was a new tear in her armor, as though a sharp blade had sliced cleanly through her leathers straight to the skin. The cut in the skin beneath was long, but shallow, though it bled profusely.

The blood was also slightly smeared.

She looked back at Uldred to find him looking pensively at the first two fingers on his left hand... which were covered with a red substance. She smirked. "A little different than you were expecting?" she asked. "Not the same when it's mixed with darkspawn blood, is it?"

He looked at her. "You are a Grey Warden." It was not a question. He smiled then. "Delicious. The victory becomes sweeter still: not only will I be able to watch a templar fall completely apart before he is destroyed, but I succeed in killing a Grey Warden as well."

"I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm not dead."

"Ah, soon, my dear Warden." He touched his thumb to his blood-covered fingers. "Soon."

The burning of the cut on her shoulder suddenly intensified, searing her flesh. Myranda's eyes widened as her whole body felt like it was being engulfed with flame. Her heart started to pump faster and faster, and she was sure it would explode from the effort. Sweat beaded her brow as liquid heat scorched through her veins and she fell back onto the floor, clutching her wounded shoulder with one hand while clawing at her breastplate over her heart with the other. She didn't hear Uldred laughing, or Leliana screaming her name, or Baby barking madly over the roaring in her ears. She only knew heat and noise, and her only thought was how she'd disappointed Alistair by letting herself be injured.

Alistair was on his feet. His mind was strangely clear as he flawlessly recited the words to the one technique he'd thought he'd never be able to use. It was the last the Chantry had taught him—weeks before Duncan had recruited him—and the words had never rolled off his tongue the way they were supposed to... the way they did now. Uldred was laughing, reveling in his supposed victory, but he didn't hear it. He only heard Myranda's pained and labored breathing, and it infused him with a pure unadulterated fury like he'd never known. She was the one bright light in a world being consumed by darkness, and he would not allow this abomination in every sense of the word take her from him!

The searing heat in Myranda's body suddenly stopped as a great pillar of pure white light burst through the room, enveloping Uldred completely. He screamed as if he was being torn apart, falling to the ground and flailing madly. Wynne, meanwhile, had apparently given up on the Litany and raced over to Leliana, kneeling next to the bard.

The light diminished and Alistair backed away from the writhing blood mage, turning and jogging over to where Myranda lay before falling to his knees next to the other Grey Warden, gathering her up in his arms. "Myranda... Myranda..."

"I'm sorry," she whispered, trying to stop her body from shivering as it acclimated itself to the suddenly cooler temperature. "I let myself be injured."

"Don't talk," he said, holding her. "I'm sorry... I should have stopped it sooner."

"I'm just glad you did. At least, I think so."

Wynne hurried over to them then with Leliana and Baby in tow. "Lie still now," she ordered as she held out her hands to Myranda, which glowed white with healing magic.

She had just finished when a bellow of rage sounded throughout the room. The five looked over at Uldred to find him slowly getting to his feet. Gone was his sardonic haughtiness; in its place was a mad desperation. He glared at them all before throwing his hands over his head and shouting a summons for a demon. Then he doubled over, a roar of rage and pain escaping him before he suddenly began to transform before their eyes.

Myranda watched in horror as his body contorted in the most sickening ways, his robes ripping as the shape of his body shifted and grew. "What's happening to him?"

"He's transforming into an abomination," Wynne said.

"Well at least we don't have to worry about blood magic anymore," Alistair muttered.

"I don't think this is much of an improvement," the mage retorted.

"Ugh. And I thought he couldn't get any uglier," Leliana said.

Uldred's transformation seemed to be nearly complete: he was nearly three times larger than before, covered in what appeared to be red scales. His eyes were small and numerous and solid gold in color... the same of which could be said for the lines of razor-sharp teeth, of which they had a clear view as the mouth hung open.

"A pride demon," Wynne whispered.

"Be very careful," Alistair added.

"Give me some time, and I will destroy it."

Myranda nodded. "Right."

The demon looked toward them. "Templar," it roared. "You will be the first to die."

"Over my dead body," Myranda growled, rushing toward it.

The four non-mages fought the pride demon with little success as the air around them became more and more charged. Myranda looked up as lightning arced across the dark cloud swirling above them. Recognizing the signs of the storm, she backed away from the demon. "Pull back!" she called, sheathing her dagger. "Everyone pull back!" She looked back at Wynne as her companions raced toward her. "Now, Wynne!"

A firestorm like the one she'd witnessed in the Fade suddenly erupted in the room, made all the more nightmarish with the addition of the lightning. She and the others backed toward Wynne, watching as fire and lightning swirled around the demon before engulfing and completely annihilating it as it roared in rage and agony.

"Holy Maker," Leliana breathed as the storm died down, leaving the smoking shell of the pride demon behind.

Myranda looked over at her and felt a smile tugging at her lips. "Oh, Leliana," she said, trying not to laugh. "Your hair!"

"What?" She reached up and a horrified look crossed her face as she felt how her short red hair was standing mostly on end. "Oh, Andraste!" she cried, frantically smoothing it down.

The Grey Warden laughed softly. "I'm sorry... maybe I shouldn't have said anything."

"No, no... I'm glad you... oh!" She walked away, still trying to smooth her hair.

Myranda lifted a hand to her mouth to stifle her giggles. She stopped when she felt her other hand being taken and looked over at Alistair.

"Are... you all right?"

"Yes," she said with a slight smile. "Are you?"

He nodded. "I'm fine."

She watched the affectionate smile cross his lips as he lifted a hand toward her face.

"Your hair..." he said with a slight laugh.

Myranda lowered her eyes and lifted her free hand to her hair, her fingers brushing against his. "Is mine doing it too?" she asked, embarrassed.

"Just a few wisps."

She looked back up at him with a sheepish smile. "I suppose that will teach me to stand out in a lightning storm." Her smile widened as he chuckled softly. "That... pillar of white light," she said, changing the subject, "did you...?"

It was Alistair's turn to look away in embarrassment. "Oh, that," he said. "That's... a templar ability they call Holy Smite. It basically does physical damage while also draining mana."

"It was very impressive." She allowed her smile to twist into a smirk. "Are you sure you can't teach me to be a templar?"

He looked back at her. "If I could," he said softly, "if it was possible for you to learn without warrior skills, I would teach you. Gladly. My promise to the grand cleric be damned."

Myranda blinked, surprised by this. She honestly didn't think he'd willingly go back on his word to the grand cleric. What could have brought on this change in heart, all of a sudden?

Alistair, realizing how much of his emotions he'd revealed, looked away again, clearing his throat awkwardly as he released her hand. "Well," he said, fighting the blush he could feel creeping up his neck. "We... we should see to the first enchanter."

"Er... right."

The cages Uldred had constructed had vanished when the pride demon had been defeated, and Myranda made straight for the older man that the blood mage had addressed when they had entered. "First Enchanter Irving?" she asked, kneeling in front of him as he slowly sat up.

"Maker," he groaned, shaking his head. "I'm too old for this."

"Irving," Wynne said, kneeling next to him. "Are you all right?"

"I've... ngh... been better," the first enchanter managed. "But I am thankful to be alive." He looked over at the other mage. "I suppose that is your doing, isn't it, Wynne?"

"I wasn't alone," Wynne said as she helped him to his feet. "I had help."

"Ah... yes." Irving looked around at Myranda, Alistair, and Leliana. "The Circle owes all of you a debt we will never be able to repay."

"I'm just glad you're not hurt, First Enchanter," Myranda said.

"I could say the same for you, young lady. That was quite an ordeal you went through."

Myranda allowed herself to smile. "I'm a Grey Warden," she said. "It will take more than that to kill me."

Irving smiled a little. "You were lucky to have a templar with you."

"Not a full templar," Alistair said. "Just trained."

"But with the skills," Myranda said, looking at him. "And I do think I'm lucky that he's with me," she added as he met her eyes. She smiled gently. "Very lucky."

Alistair returned her smile, fighting back the overwhelming urge to lean over and kiss her.

The first enchanter looked between the two and smiled softly. "Come," he said, "the templars await. We shall let them know that the tower is once again ours."

"Lead on, then," Myranda said.

"I'll need you to guide me down the stairs," Irving said, obviously a great concession.

"Of course," the blonde woman said. "Shall I lend you my shoulder for a little while?"

"Thank you." He placed a hand on her shoulder, leaning slightly on her as she helped him toward the stairs. "Ah, curse whoever insisted the Circle be housed in a tower!" he muttered under his breath.

Myranda smiled, glad the experience hadn't dampened the old man's obviously considerable spirit.


	16. Fiona

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party begins their journey back to Redcliffe... which promises to be faster than the journey away.
> 
> Arais belongs to AO3 user AmandaKitswell  
> Caeda belongs to my friend Voce

**Chapter 16: _Fiona_**

 

Myranda followed the group back toward the front receiving room of the tower, cradling a large book in her arms. Alistair had taken over helping Irving down the several stairs when they had reached the third floor, and Myranda had taken the opportunity to slip back to the first enchanter's study to retrieve a book she had seen earlier. When they reached the room where they had left Kinnon, Caeda, and the children, many of the young ones had cheered when they saw Irving, rushing to the elder mage. Caeda immediately set to healing the many battle wounds that Wynne had not had time to see to. Cullen, who had been freed from his strange prison by the time they reached him again, eyed them all with a strange, desperate paranoia and remained eerily silent.

Greagoir turned to face them as the doors to the tower opened. "Irving?" he said, sounding shocked. "Maker's breath, I did not expect to see you alive."

"It is over, Greagoir," Irving said. "Uldred... is dead."

"Uldred tortured these mages," Cullen interrupted frantically, "hoping to break their wills and turn them into abominations. We don't know how many of them have turned!"

"What?" Irving asked in disbelief. "Don't be ridiculous!"

"Of course he'll say that! He might be a blood mage!" The young templar grabbed Greagoir's arm. "Don't you know what they did? I won't let this happen again!"

"I shouldn't have to remind you, Cullen," Greagoir said, pointedly removing the other man's hand, "that _I_ am the knight-commander here, not you."

"And what is the knight-commander's decision?" Myranda asked, interjecting her voice into the tense situation.

Greagoir looked at her, then Irving, then Cullen before looking back at her. "We have won back the tower," he pronounced. "I will accept Irving's assurance that all is well."

"Excellent," Myranda said, pleased.

Cullen, on the other hand, looked as if Greagoir had just proclaimed that he ate puppies for breakfast. "But they may have demons within them, lying dormant!" he protested. "Lying in wait!"

"Enough!" Greagoir said. "I have already made my decision."

"I can't let you do this!" Cullen said, reaching for his sword. "I cannot allow these blood mages to roam free!"

Myranda reached for her dagger, but fortunately the deranged templar was grabbed and restrained by his brothers before he could do any harm.

"Take him away," Greagoir ordered. "See that he is detained until he regains his senses."

"Go easy on him, Knight-Commander," Myranda said as Cullen was led away. "We found him locked in a strange sort of cage. He had been denied food and water, tortured, and held for Maker knows how long."

"Constructed by blood magic?"

The blonde woman shrugged. "I'm neither mage nor templar, so I couldn't say. You could ask Alistair or Wynne about it... they would have a better informed answer than I."

The knight-commander glanced at Wynne briefly. "I may do that." He looked back at Myranda then. "Thank you, Grey Warden. You have proven yourself a friend of both the Circle and the templars."

"I am happy to be able to assist. But I still require aid to fight the darkspawn and defeat this Blight."

Greagoir sighed. "I know I promised you aid, but with the Circle restored, my duty is to watch the mages." He held up a hand as she opened her mouth to protest. "The mages, however, are free to help you."

Myranda closed her mouth again and nodded. "Thank you."

"For now, I will have to oversee a sweep of the tower. Please, excuse me. And Irving," he added, turning to the first enchanter, the barest hint of a smile pulling at the corner of his lips, "it is good to have you back."

Irving smirked. "Ah, I'm sure we'll be at each other's throats again in no time," he said.

Greagoir nodded and gave Wynne a look before he turned away, giving orders to the rest of the templars. Wynne stepped over to him and the two began to converse in soft tones—the knight-commander apparently asking about Cullen's cage.

Irving stood with Myranda for a moment, watching the slight scramble of templars and shaking his head a little. "Here we are," he said, almost to himself, "the tower in disarray, the Circle nearly annihilated..."

"I don't know how it could have been worse."

"It could have been much, much worse," the older man said as he looked at her. "Still, I am glad you arrived when you did. It's almost as though the Maker Himself sent you."

"I won't claim that. I came to ask the Circle for help against the Blight."

"The least we can do is help you against the darkspawn. I would hate to survive this only to be overcome by the Blight." Irving took her hand. "You have my word, as first enchanter. The Circle will join the Grey Wardens in the fight."

"Thank you."

"Irving, I have a request," Wynne said, walking over to them. "I seek leave to follow the Grey Warden."

Myranda looked at her in slight surprise.

"Wynne," Irving began, "we need you here. The Circle needs you."

Wynne smiled a little. "I appreciate the sentiment, Irving, but the Circle will do fine without me. The Circle has you. This woman is brave and good, and capable of great things." She looked at Myranda then. "If she will accept my help, I will help her accomplish her goals."

Myranda smiled. "I would be honored to have you join me, Wynne."

The first enchanter shook his head a little, a fond smile on his face. "You were never one to stay in the tower when there was adventure to be had elsewhere."

"Why stay when I can be of service elsewhere?" Wynne asked, returning the smile.

"Then I give you leave to follow the Grey Warden, but know that you always have a place here." He sighed then, heavily. "There is much to be done here, and I must go." He bowed his head slightly. "You must forgive me for not being a proper host."

"There is another matter," Myranda said, interjecting before the older man could make his escape. "Can the Circle go to Redcliffe to save a possessed child? The arl of Redcliffe's son has shown himself a mage, and he's been possessed by a demon." She ignored how Greagoir, who had turned to face her, tensed at the news. "There are times when he apparently is himself," she added hastily.

"The child is possessed? But... killing the demon would mean killing the..." the first enchanter watched the look of horrified dread that crossed the blonde woman's face and narrowed his eyes slightly in thought. "Unless you intend to enter the Fade? Yes... yes, it can be done with a group of mages..." his voice trailed off in thought. "Yes. I shall gather what mages I can and we shall leave promptly. A life is at stake." He looked toward the knight-commander. "By your leave, Greagoir."

"There is no time to lose," Greagoir agreed. "I shall allow a small party to go with you by ship, Warden, with a group of templars to bring back the boy."

Myranda blinked. "By ship?"

"The templars have a ship, the _Fiona_ , in Lake Calenhad. It will be faster than walking around."

"You mean we don't have to walk?" Leliana asked. "Well that's a relief if nothing else."

"How much faster?" Myranda asked.

"Three days," Irving told her, "with mages providing a constant wind."

"Excellent. We've been away from Redcliffe long enough," she added, looking over at Alistair.

He nodded. "And I don't trust Jowan."

Irving looked at them as if startled at the mention of the name.

"She should be ready to leave shortly," Greagoir said. "I'll see that the preparations are made."

"I'll join you," Irving said. "Wynne? If I could also speak to you?"

"Of course, Irving," the other mage agreed before walking away with the two men.

"Thank you," Myranda called before she looked back at Leliana. "Would you see about our supplies? I think we're a little low on a few things."

"Right away," the bard agreed before wandering off toward one of the templars.

Myranda then looked at Alistair, holding the book she had sneaked from the first enchanter's office out to him. "Would you put this in my pack, please?" she asked.

"Planning on a little light reading?" he asked before looking at the title. He frowned then. "You're stealing this one?"

"Not stealing," she said. "Borrowing. For an indefinite period of time." She smirked then. "And if there had been a lurid novel on those shelves, do you honestly think I would have left it?" This caused Alistair to blush predictably.

"That... wasn't what I was thinking," he said.

"Of course not." She patted his shoulder before he walked away with the book, smiling fondly after him. Maker help her, he was so _cute_ when he blushed.

Myranda suddenly felt a timid tug on her leathers and looked down to see a small child staring up at her. Her eyes were such a pale grey they almost looked white, though she was surprised to see icy blue sparks in their depths. They made such a contrast to her slightly bronze skin that it was almost startling.

"Miss... Miss Warden?" she asked.

Myranda smiled gently and knelt in front of the six-year-old girl. "I remember you," she said. "You were with Wynne at the entrance to the tower when I arrived, right?"

The little girl nodded shyly.

"What's your name?"

"A-Arais," she said. "Arais Kitswell."

"Very nice to meet you, Mistress Kitswell. You can call me Myranda."

Arais smiled a little. "Did you really kill all the demons in the tower, Myranda?" she asked.

"I did," Myranda said with a slight frown. "I had to. I couldn't let them get you and Irving and Wynne and the other mages."

"Are the templars going to get us now?" She sounded very afraid of the idea.

"No, the templars aren't going to hurt you. Greagoir promised they wouldn't."

"Really?"

Myranda nodded. "The templars aren't so bad, are they?" she asked.

Arais paused as Greagoir walked determinedly by them, not giving them a second glance. "They're scary," the six-year-old whispered. "I don't like them much."

"Surely they're not all bad," the Grey Warden said before turning at the sound of Alistair's footsteps. "Is it time to go?" she asked.

"Not yet." He knelt next to her, smiling at the little girl. "Who's your new friend here?" he asked.

"This is Arais Kitswell," Myranda said. She looked at the young mage, holding her hand out to the other Grey Warden. "This is my friend, Alistair."

"A pleasure to meet you, my lady," Alistair said to the child with a slight bow.

Arais giggled and looked away shyly.

"How long have you been in the tower, Arais?" he asked politely.

"Just... just six months," she said, fidgeting with her robes.

"And where were you from before?" Myranda asked.

"I lived in Amaranthine." She pronounced the town's long name slowly, but properly. She made a face. "I didn't like it there," she said. "Arl Howe's really mean."

"Yes," Myranda said, trying not to show all the venom she felt lest she scare the child. "Arl Howe is a very bad man."

"And how are you liking the tower?" Alistair asked.

The little girl frowned and looked away. "It's ok," she said softly. "The others tease me a lot. They say my eyes look funny."

"I think they're very pretty," Alistair told her.

She looked up at him. "Really?" she asked hopefully.

"Absolutely!" he said with a smile.

She smiled back. "Are you a Grey Warden, too, Alistair?" she asked.

"Yes, I am," he said proudly.

"Alistair was once a templar, too," Myranda said.

Arais looked at him in surprise. "You were?"

"I was trained as a templar, yes."

The little girl's face scrunched suddenly like she was trying to come to terms with the idea. "But you're not mean," she said. "Templars are mean."

Myranda fought back a soft laugh at this.

"That's why I'm not a templar," he said. "They wouldn't let me join because I couldn't be mean enough. I can't even look mean." He looked at her with a comical version of a stern glare, which only made the young mage laugh. Even Myranda laughed at this act. "You see? That's why I'm a Grey Warden."

"Do you think I could be a Grey Warden someday?" Arais asked.

Myranda and Alistair exchanged a look. "Maybe," Myranda said. "If you're good and you practice really hard."

"Myranda," Leliana called. "I think we're ready."

"Be right there," she called back. "We need to go now," she said, turning back to the child.

"Will you come back?" she asked, her silver eyes shining.

"We'll try." She was surprised when the little girl hugged her suddenly.

"Thank you for saving us," she said.

Myranda smiled a little before hugging her back. "You're very welcome, Miss Kitswell."

"Arais," Caeda called. "Come along, now."

Arais shot the Grey Wardens one last smile—notably more shy when she looked at Alistair—before running back to the petite blonde mage.

Myranda smiled as Alistair stood next to her. "I told you you'd left starry-eyed maids in your wake," she said, letting him help her to her feet.

"She's only six."

"Six-year-old girls know a handsome man when they see one, too, you know." She smiled at him. "And that daughter of yours would be spoiled completely rotten."

"Her mother probably wouldn't mind, though."

She looked at him. "Do you have a mother in mind?" she asked, lifting an eyebrow at him.

Alistair felt a dark blush creeping up his face. "No... no, I just... surely any woman who lost her head enough to love me would realize I'd spoil our children."

"You're right. She probably would. And I don't think that would be a sign of madness." She shot him a grin before grabbing her pack and heading out of the tower and into the mid-afternoon sunshine. She followed the general flow of mages and templars around to the back of the tower to find a large dock she hadn't realized existed on the opposite side of the small island, with a ship floating serenely beside the short wharf.

She was a modest sized cutter, sleek and swift-looking. The name _Fiona_ was painted in gold across the back of the stern, the letters glittering in the sunlight. The single mast had two sails in the front: a smaller one near the top and a much larger one stretching nearly to the deck. The larger main sail also had a stitched decoration of eight flairs of fire, their bases all pointing toward the center of the sail. A large, square sail also extended off the back of the mast—a sail that would act as a rudder under normal circumstances. Three other, triangular sails were also tied to the mast and the main deck by ropes, their third points all secured to the long bowsprit that pointed straight from the tip of the bow.

"Oh, she's so pretty," Myranda breathed.

"Why are ships always referred to as 'she's?" Alistair asked, walking up to stand beside her. "I could never figure it out."

"I think it is because they're considered so dear to their captains," Leliana said, joining them. "Some also say that a ship only responds to her captain's touch, in the way a woman would respond to her lover."

Myranda and Alistair exchanged a look and blushed. "Well," the blonde woman said, "there's your answer."

"Why do I even ask questions anymore?" the other Grey Warden muttered, embarrassed.

They boarded the vessel and were led to a series of cabins in the stern, where their templar guide informed them to take their pick. Myranda walked into the nearest one, dropping her pack on the floor before flopping onto the bed, enjoying, for just a few moments, the feel of a real bed. She stretched out and snuggled down into the mattress which, though hard, felt as soft as goose down after the ground and the floor of the tower.

Much as she hated to, she finally got up and walked back up on the deck in time to see three mages cast a huge wind spell that filled the sails and started them south across the lake toward Redcliffe. She took a deep breath, her heart lifting at the thought that—at last—they would complete the task they had begun and save Eamon.

Noting the bonfire near the bow, she frowned and rushed over, but found the flames did not seem to be eating through the deck beneath. "How do we have a fire on the ship, yet it doesn't burn through the wood?" she asked.

Wynne, who happened to be standing nearby, smirked. "Magic," she said simply.

Myranda's eyebrows lifted. "Convenient."

"Sometimes."

"It will be nice to have a fire on board, though... without worrying that we'll have to swim to shore at any moment, that is." She bit her lip then, the memory of something suddenly looming up in her mind. "I've... been meaning to ask you something."

"Oh?"

"I saw something in the Fade that I couldn't have dreamed even if I tried. I don't know what it was, but it... looked like a giant crystal."

"Lyrium," Wynne said, nodding.

Myranda looked at her sharply. "That was lyrium?" she asked softly.

"Yes. There are lyrium crystals scattered through the Fade, which mages and Fade spirits can use for power." The mage looked suddenly concerned at the look of slight horror on the younger woman's face. "Are you all right?"

"Alistair said templars get addicted to lyrium." She bit her lip. "And, Maker help me, I touched it."

The mage's face relaxed and she laughed softly. "It is true, templars do get addicted to lyrium. But the addiction does not come from only one dose. Templars have another year of training after they take their vows in which they are given lyrium before they are assigned to a Circle or Chantry."

Myranda looked up at her. "Really?"

"Yes, so you should be fine. Though I wouldn't go searching out more raw lyrium crystals if I were you."

The younger woman laughed a little and held up her hands. "No, no. I won't. Thank you, Wynne."

"You're very welcome."

Myranda wandered away from the fire, walking toward the bow before turning and looking up at the sails, billowing in the mage-created wind. She looked at the templar symbol on the mainsail, frowning as she studied it. The more she stared at it, the more curious it became. Her confusion had blossomed into full bewilderment by the time Alistair walked over to her.

"What's the matter?"

"Why is the templars' symbol a flower?" she asked.

"Flower?"

Myranda nodded and pointed. "Doesn't the fire outline an eight-petalled flower? Is the flower significant?"

Alistair blinked at her before looking up at the familiar symbol on the mainsail.

"Or maybe it's supposed to be a star," she mused. "I suppose a star would be better."

"It does look like a flower, doesn't it?" he said in surprise. "I never noticed before." He made a great show of looking around warily. "Don't tell the other templars," he said, leaning over to whisper conspiratorially to her. "Maybe they won't notice either."

Myranda laughed at this before looking around. "Though they are rather... intimidating, aren't they?"

"The templars?"

"They're... like statues. They just don't move. I half expect one of the birds to land on them at any moment."

"Yeah... I didn't do so well at that part of the training, either."

She looked at him and smirked. "They _actually_ train you to stand still like that?"

"Sure. We called it statue practice."

"You're making that up!" she accused.

"No, honest!" He watched as she raised a skeptical eyebrow. "All right, I did make it up," he admitted. "But it sounded good."

Myranda laughed.

"They look formidable now, but, trust me... take away their lyrium and they'd be like babies."

"Have I told you lately how glad I am you never took the vows to become a templar?"

"Not nearly as glad as I am. I'd be a terrible templar."

She smiled at him. "And a griffon is a far better symbol than flower."

"Without a doubt!"

She giggled, looking up as the first enchanter approached. "First Enchanter Irving," she said, nodding.

"I beg your pardon, Grey Wardens," he said.

"Quite all right," Myranda said.

"I had hoped to ask you about the possessed boy."

"Of course, sir."

Myranda told what she could, leaving most of the analysis of the demon to Alistair, to whom she deferred before excusing herself from the conversation. She wandered back toward the stern and into the corridor where their cabins were located, knocking on one of the last doors.

"Who's there?" came the muffled challenge.

"It's me," the Grey Warden replied.

"Oh... enter if you must."

She pushed open the door slowly and nodded to the room's occupant. "Hello, Morrigan."

Morrigan nodded in return. "What do you wish of me, Myranda?"

"How are you?"

"If you are trying to ask if I am intimidated by the templars, I am not."

"I know better than that by now," Myranda said. "Have you ever been hunted by the Chantry?" she asked, suddenly curious.

"My mother has been hunted from time to time." She snorted in derision. "By templar fools like Alistair, which should tell you how successful they generally were."

The Grey Warden settled into a chair. "How did you manage?"

A slight smile crossed the young witch's lips. "Flemeth made a bit of a game of it, in fact," she said. "The templars would come again and she would look at me and smile and say that the fun was to begin once more."

"You really had no trouble with them?"

"I am unsure," Morrigan said simply. "I was too young to understand, and perhaps 'twas bravado on Flemeth's part. Or perhaps she was merely amused, I will never know." She shrugged. "Flemeth would warn them once. 'Twas a warning they inevitably failed to heed. And then the _true_ game began." A hint of a smile touched her lips. "Often Flemeth would use me as bait. A little girl to scream and run and lure the templars deeper into the Wilds and to their doom."

"Flemeth used you as bait?" Myranda asked, horrified.

"'Twas a game and I a young girl. If I didn't get to play, I would have been very upset. Thankfully, the Wilds is a vast place. Once they found us, Flemeth would simply move us elsewhere and we would be lost within the forest once again. I did not understand the danger we faced until I was much older. I had never heard of 'apostates' or 'maleficarum.'"

"And do you still think that was fun?"

"I think that my mother made it fun so that a child did not learn to fear. And I think that it was necessary." She gave Myranda a hard look. "There are no trials for apostates, no prisons, no mercy. There are only absolutes, so only survival matters. If the Wilds have taught me anything, 'tis this: first you must survive." She lifted one thin eyebrow then. "Do you disagree?"

"No, no. You're probably right."

"An enlightened view," Morrigan said. "Or at least an agreeable one."

"Do you miss her?" the Grey Warden asked suddenly.

"I think about my mother from time to time, but it does no good to dwell on such things."

"I... suppose not." She was silent for a moment before she suddenly remembered. "Oh, I found something in the tower I thought might interest you. Just a moment." She ducked down the hall into her room before picking up the book she'd recovered from Irving's study and taking it back to Morrigan. "Here. This should help the voyage go a little faster."

Morrigan looked at the book before a look of pure surprise crossed her features. "What? You found Flemeth's grimoire?" She took it and stared at the cover. "Ever since we discovered the condition of the mage's tower, I had wondered if it might be recoverable... but I had yet to speak of it to you." Her fingers traced the decoration idly. "How fortunate that you found it on your own," she said, almost to herself. She lifted her golden eyes then. "You have my thanks. I will begin study of the tome immediately."

Myranda smiled. "You're welcome."

"I do not intend to squander this opportunity to learn more than Flemeth wished me to know. This should be... interesting."

"Then I shall leave you to your reading."

 

That evening, after dinner, Alistair found Myranda leaning back against the deck railing near the fire, her eyes closed, her head nodding forward slightly from time to time. He smiled a little. She was making a valiant effort to stay awake and failing miserably. "Myranda?"

Her eyes flew open and she stared at him a moment before she smiled, her eyes falling half-closed again. "Hi. Was I asleep?"

"Not quite."

"I'm sorry," she said, stretching a little before settling back against the railing again with a yawn. "It's just nice to be able to relax for a little while."

"Maybe you should go to bed. From the sound of things, you didn't get a restful nap like the rest of us."

"No," she murmured, her eyes closing completely. "It doesn't seem fair that I have to fight in my dreams, too." She shook her head. "I'm so tired, but I'm almost afraid to sleep."

"Maybe the good Fade spirits will take care of you for a while tonight so you can rest. It isn't all demons in there, you know." He watched for a moment as she stood wavering on the edge of sleep. "Come on," he said gently. "Let's get you to bed before you fall into the lake." He gathered her up in his arms, his heart forgetting how to beat properly as she snuggled against his chest and sighed contentedly. She was asleep within moments.

He carried her easily down toward her cabin, managing to open the door without incident. He laid her down carefully on the bunk, trying not to wake her. She stirred slightly, reaching up and clutching the pillow before burying down into it and yawning. A smile tugged at his lips and he pulled a blanket over her. He hesitated then with sudden indecision, his fingertips hovering over her cheek before he finally moved to retreat quietly from the room. He had just reached the door when her voice, slurred with sleep, stopped him.

"Alistair?"

"Yes?" He saw her eyes halfway open and she smiled at him.

"Thank you."

He smiled. "My pleasure."

"Good night, Alistair."

"Good night."

 

 

Myranda was awake at dawn. She yawned as she stepped onto the deck to find it deserted except for a crewman at the wheel and the ever-present templars. She arched her back a little as she stretched, breathing the crisp, fresh air tinged with the smell of the lake. She covered her mouth as she yawned again. Getting an idea, she padded back down to her cabin, strapping on her sword belt before returning to the open space of the main deck.

She drew her sword, looking at the runes that had been inscribed into the blade in the days of Elethea Cousland and remembering her mother's voice as she would drill her on sword technique. _"A sword should be an extension of your arm. It should feel so natural in your hand that you barely notice it's there at all. And you need to be comfortable with a blade in both hands... and able to switch at a moment's notice."_ She smiled as she tossed the blade slowly from hand to hand, catching it and holding the hilt firmly before moving it back to her other hand. Soon the time became shorter, and she had barely caught the hilt before she tossed the blade back to her other hand, eventually adding a whirling strike into an imaginary foe.

It felt like a dance, as it always had. The movements were so fluid as to be second nature now, but, even after all this time, she could still hear her mother's voice correcting her small mistakes and praising her accomplishments.

She heard a familiar pair of footsteps behind her and whirled around, slicing down with her sword. A one-handed broadsword lifted to meet her blade, and the two met with the loud metallic clang of steel meeting steel. She looked up into the wielder's handsome face, meeting his warm hazel eyes, and smiled. "Good morning," she said.

"Care for a sparring partner?" Alistair asked with a smile.

"Think you can handle a rogue?" she asked. She grinned mischievously at him then. "I fight dirty."

"So does a group of darkspawn."

Myranda lifted an eyebrow, spinning her blade to break the parry. "Then you should have no problem fighting me," she said. "You have a six month head start on fighting darkspawn."

"The opponent will be much better looking this time, though."

She smiled and twirled the sword blade in her left hand. "Promise me something."

"What's that?"

"Don't go easy on me."

He smiled a little. "You realize that goes against everything I learned. I was taught to be respectful to beautiful women, you know."

"Forget the fact that I'm a woman. Think of me as a combatant... one that's trying to kill you."

"It's difficult to forget you're a woman, Myranda," he said softly.

She smirked. "Try," she said, before lunging at him.

He blocked most of her attacks with relative ease, though he offered no counter. She pursed her lips and ducked behind him. "Don't let me get behind you," she chastised, tapping him with the flat of her sword. "The weakest part of the armor's the back. If I get behind you, you're dead."

"I trust you not to kill me," he said as he turned to face her again.

She stared at him. "You trust me?" she asked.

"Completely."

"Don't. What will you do if you have to fight me?"

"And why would I fight with you?" he asked with a slight grin.

"Well... what if I get possessed by a demon or something?"

He frowned. "I'm not going to let that happen," he said softly. "Not if I can help it."

She stared at him for a moment. "I still want you to be prepared for it," she said. "At least to be able to fight me off long enough for someone to dispel the demon."

They sparred together, the clashing swords ringing in the still, early morning air. As always, she was impressed by his skill, even if he was going easy on her. She smirked at him suddenly as he turned to keep her in front of him as she tried to duck behind him again. She flipped the sword into her other hand and quickly brought it up in a parry as he slashed at her. Their blades locked and Myranda twirled under his arm as if into an embrace, her back against his chest.

The move startled Alistair—mostly because having her so close, breathing her scent, and in what could be an intimate position made his head swim. It was to his great surprise that he felt the flat of a shorter blade against his side. He looked down to see her dagger in her hand before lifting his eyes again to see the smug look on her face.

"Dead again," she murmured.

Alistair struggled to breathe as she laughed and stepped away from him. That wasn't exactly what he'd had in mind when she'd told him she fought dirty. How in the Maker's name was he supposed to forget about her being a woman when she did things like that?

"Come now, Alistair," Myranda chastised as she turned back to him. "You promised you wouldn't go easy on me."

He took a deep breath and released it slowly. "I'm trying," he said.

"Don't worry. I'm used to sparring with men. If I get hurt, it's for my own good."

They circled each other for a moment before Myranda renewed her attack. She slashed down at him with her sword, which he blocked, and turned her dagger so that the pommel tapped against his stomach—a blow which he had not countered in any way. "Wounded," she said.

"I'm usually wearing armor there," he said.

"And when you're not? Again." She repeated the move after a few other blows and struck him again with the pommel of her dagger. The third time she dropped the blade and reached forward with her hand, tickling him mercilessly. He laughed and grabbed her wrist gently before moving out of her reach. "You're not taking me seriously," she said with a smirk.

"I am taking you seriously," he said with a smile.

"Are you?" She broke his hold on her wrist before reaching forward to tickle him again, giggling as he laughed and caught her hand again. "I'm not sure you are."

"All right, all right."

Myranda grinned as he let go of her wrist again and turned away, bending over to pick up her dagger where she'd dropped it. Seeing out of the corner of her eye how Alistair had lifted his sword, making to tap her with the flat of the blade, she vaulted herself forward, somersaulting out of the way. She got to her feet in an instant and turned to smirk at him. "Be careful," she said with a grin, pointing her sword at him. "With moves like that, I may try to make a rogue out of you."

He grinned and lifted his blade to hers. "It didn't work, so I'm not sure how successful you'd be."

The two sword blades rubbed and tapped against each other as the two combatants circled each other. Myranda found herself grinning at him as she spun the dagger in her other hand, waiting for an opening. Then, suddenly, he smirked—a look she suddenly found incredibly sexy and made her head spin. She shrieked in surprise as he lunged toward her in that moment, sprinting away before whirling back around suddenly to renew her attack. He parried every blow from both blades before the three finally locked together. The two Grey Wardens stared at each other for a few moments before Alistair pushed her back in an attempt to break the block. He pushed her away harder than he'd intended, however, and Myranda stumbled backwards before falling to the planks with a thud and a slight grunt of pain.

"Myranda! Are you all right?" Alistair asked as he trotted over to her.

"Oh, yes. Fine." She looked up at him and smirked. "Not bad."

"Thanks." He smiled. "Does this mean I win?"

Her smirk became vicious as she brought her foot around hard, sweeping his feet out from under him. He landed on his back hard and she rolled over almost on top of him, plunging the tip of her dagger into the wood next to his ear. "No," she murmured. "You're still dead."

He stared up into her sparkling green eyes in stunned silence. She'd just "killed" him again, and yet he couldn't help thinking how incredibly beautiful and desirable she looked. She was panting softly with the exercise, grinning playfully at him. Sweat beaded on her skin and the droplets slid slowly down the side of her face, and the salty tang mixed with her natural scent was heady indeed. In combination with the feel of her body against his, it was enough to make him nearly lose his senses completely and kiss her.

The air seemed to shift then, as if she suddenly realized the situation and position they were in... and where it could go. The smile faded from her lips, though they remained parted as she panted slightly harder. But she didn't move away... and that gave him hope. She was so _close_. He remembered suddenly that they weren't alone when the sound of applause filled the air, breaking the trance which had enveloped them both. He watched her look up, taking in the templars around them, before she looked back down at him and a dark blush crept up into her cheeks. She pulled her dagger from the planks and scooted away from him, an embarrassed smile on her lips as she rubbed the back of her neck.

Myranda had never been so glad to have an audience. Had they been given another two seconds the applause would have been accompanied by raucous cheering and whistling, as she would have surely kissed him. She looked back at him as he sat up, biting her lip in embarrassment. "Well," she said, sheathing her dagger to avoid looking at him. "That was... fun."

Alistair managed to smile a little. "Good exercise, anyway," he said, standing.

"Yes." She took his hand when he held it down to her, allowing him to pull her to her feet. A smile crossed her lips as he held on to her hand a bit longer than was necessary before she turned to retrieve her sword.

He watched her as she leaned over to take up her blade. He smirked then before lifting his sword to tap her on the small of her back. However, she knelt and swung her sword over her shoulder, countering the intended attack.

She looked back at him, her eyes sparkling with mischief before she clicked her tongue in mock disapproval. "Such tactics!" she playfully admonished. She broke the parry as she stood again before tapping the flat of her sword against his hip, a provocative gleam lighting her emerald eyes. "I may make a rogue of you yet."

He blinked in surprise, sure he was imagining the suggestion in her voice and eyes. He didn't have time to think on it overmuch as she turned away with a soft laugh, making for her cabin.

 

 

"You remind me of Lady Cecilie."

Wynne turned to the young redhead, who was leaning on the deck railing behind her. "Who?"

"She was an Orlesian lady," Leliana explained. "My mother served her until she died and Lady Cecilie let me stay, instead of turning me out on the street. You are like her in some ways. You have the same poise, the same air of nobility."

The mage shook her head slowly. "Oh, child, I am hardly noble."

"I learned that nobility isn't just something you are born with. I have met nobles who were petty and mean—complete degenerates. Then there are people with a certain dignity and grace. It draws you to them, no matter who you are, or who they are." She paused thoughtfully. "I think the lowest peasant can have the most noble spirit and it will always shine through. It is this nobility of spirit that you share with Cecilie."

"Why... thank you, Leliana. It is very kind of you to say that."

The two women looked up at the sound of feminine laughter floating back toward them to see the two Grey Wardens engaged in a lively conversation. Myranda shook her finger at Alistair suddenly, but he must have said something to her then as another giggle tumbled through the air as she gave him a playful shove. "They're very fond of each other, aren't they?"

Leliana smiled a little. "They are. But they have not admitted it to each other yet... or perhaps even to themselves. Certainly Myranda hasn't."

"She seems very different from the woman I met at Ostagar. It is... good to see."

"I will say, it has been fun to watch them. Their romance has blossomed quickly... and somewhat awkwardly, in Alistair's case." The bard giggled a little to herself. "They look so good together... and they're so perfect for each other. I hope they realize it soon. Maybe being on this ship—without the distraction of watching for danger along the road—will make them see."

 

"So, Alistair," Myranda said as they leaned back against the railing at the bow of the ship.

"So, Myranda."

She smiled. "Is it true what they say?"

"About cheese?" he asked.

"No, about your feet."

Alistair blinked. "They say things about my feet?"

"Well..." she began, "they're very big."

A puzzled look crossed his face. "So they... talk about them? About my big feet? You mean the rest of the party?" He paused. "That's just... I don't know. Mean."

Myranda sighed and shook her head a little, laughing a little to herself. She was beginning to wonder if 'innocent' was too strong a word for him. "I mean there is an expression about large feet."

"Oh, right. Right!"

"You know the one?" she asked, lifting an eyebrow at him.

For some reason, Alistair felt himself getting nervous. "...Umm, no."

"Well, they say if your feet are large, so are... other parts," she said, trying not to blush.

"You mean like my hands?" he asked. "I have big hands?"

She blinked. "No, that's..."

"They're not _that_ big, are they?" he asked, holding them up and looking at them in confusion. "Like, freakishly big?"

Myranda sighed heavily, lifting her hand to cover her eyes as she laughed softly. " _Why_ must you make the innuendo so difficult?" she asked, feeling the slight blush rising in her cheeks.

"Innuendo? You mean..." He watched as she looked back at him with a knowing grin on her lips and her meaning struck him immediately. " _Oh_."

"Yes," she said, lowering her eyes briefly before lifting them again. "That."

Alistair blushed darkly, looking down and then quickly away. "Now I can't even stare at my feet," he muttered. "That's just cruel."

Myranda giggled. "Well at least you blush adorably," she said.

"I'm sorry to interrupt," Wynne said, walking over to them, "but Irving would like to speak with you for a moment, Myranda."

"Oh, of course." She looked back at Alistair and giggled again, patting his shoulder consolingly before walking away.

Alistair watched her go, sighing softly. Maker help him, why did he _always_ have to lose his composure around her? He felt like such a fool. And he didn't mind her teasing so much... he just wished it didn't make him blush so often. Though if she'd meant what she said, she made him blush on purpose.

He sighed again, more heavily. Why couldn't he say all the things he practiced, and be charming too? It wasn't for lack of trying. Too bad whenever he tried he failed miserably. All she had to do was look at him and all the words and phrases he'd practiced would fall out of his head, leaving him breathless and confused. Although he had to admit nothing could be worse than 'Nice night for an evening.' What in Andraste's name had possessed him to say that? It was a good thing she was such a good friend, otherwise she'd probably simply write him off as a complete idiot. Well, if he couldn't be charming, at least he could make her laugh.

The smile started to return to his lips as he watched her lean over to pet Baby as she passed the dog, her stride never breaking as she continued to move toward the stern of the ship. She moved with the grace of a cat... probably from years of training. He had noticed before how fluid her movements were, but he had become all the more aware of it since the morning's exercise... though only after being made almost painfully mindful of her. The thought of when she had pressed back against him before 'killing' him the second time still caused his head to spin.

It was several minutes before he realized that Wynne was still standing nearby. He looked over at her to find she had folded her arms over her chest and was watching him with an intriguing grin on her lips. "Why are you smiling like that?" he asked. "You look suspiciously like the cat that swallowed the pigeon."

"Canary," the mage corrected.

He blinked in confusion. "What?"

"I look like the cat that swallowed the _canary_."

"I once had a _very_ large cat, but... not my point. My point is, why are you smirking?"

Wynne laughed softly. "You were watching her, with great interest I might add." Her grin widened. "In fact, I believe you were... _enraptured_."

"She's our leader!" he countered. "I look to her for guidance."

"Oh, I see," Wynne said, obviously not buying the story. "So what 'guidance' did you find in those swaying hips, hmm?"

Alistair's eyes widened and he felt the heat of a dark blush in his cheeks. "No, no, no!" he said. "I wasn't looking at... you know, her... hind-quarters!"

"Certainly."

"I gazed—glanced!—in that direction, _maybe_... but I wasn't staring. Or really _seeing_ anything, even." He felt he would burst into flames from sheer embarrassment.

The knowing smile never left Wynne's face. "Of course."

"I hate you," Alistair muttered. "You're a bad person."

 

The rain started at midday, chasing everyone but the crew and some of the templars into their cabins. Myranda took the opportunity to wash her hair, and as Baby lay snoozing on the floor, she and Leliana spent part of the afternoon teaching Alistair to play Wicked Grace while she waited for the blonde mass to dry. The three of them played for almost an hour, enjoying the simple pleasure despite the danger that surrounded them.

"Wait a minute," Alistair said at one point. "You're cheating!"

Myranda blinked. "What?" she asked innocently. "Cheat? _Me_?"

"Oh, don't even try. I saw you sneaking that card into your sleeve."

"All right," she laughed, pulling the card from her left sleeve and placing it on the table. "But I'm only cheating to keep up with Leliana. She's worse than me."

"I am not cheating!" the bard said, sounding mildly affronted.

"You're dealing from the bottom of the deck. I saw you."

"You two are trying to teach me how to play and you're cheating, too?" Alistair asked incredulously.

The two women laughed. "He has a point," Myranda said. "It's not fair of us."

"Oh, all right. I'll stop dealing off the bottom if you give up the other cards you have hidden."

"Fine, fine." She picked up the five cards she'd dropped into her lap and added them to the deck on the table, plus another card from her left sleeve. She looked at Alistair to find him staring at her in disbelief. "Oh... here," Myranda said, pulling a card from her other sleeve.

"Are you sure that's all?" he asked.

"I could leave if you wish to conduct a more thorough search," Leliana offered with a teasing grin.

Alistair looked at Myranda, who lifted an eyebrow and smirked suggestively at him. "Er... no," he said, looking away and blushing. "No, that's... no."

The three played a few more honest rounds before the bard left, leaving the two Grey Wardens to play a few quieter hands of Fishing. A sudden, loud shushing sound a half-hour later caused both of them to look out the window at the driving rain.

"Pretty bad, isn't it?" Alistair said.

"I'm just infinitely glad we don't have to walk through it. Unlike last time." She looked back at her cards then. "Do you have any eights?"

"Go fish," he said, considering the cards in his hand as she pulled a card from the pile between them. "Do you have any threes?"

"Go... oops!" She reached out and caught the candleholder before it slid off the table as thunder rumbled softly above them. "Go fish."

Alistair drew a card. "If it gets any worse we'll be playing Fifty-two Pickup."

"I suppose we should hurry then." She scanned her cards. "Do you have any kings?"

"Go fish."

"That's not helping us hurry," she said. She grinned at him then. "Are you sure you're not hiding one?"

He sighed and looked at her in askance, but he could feel the smile pulling at the corners of his mouth at the sight of her teasing grin. "Yes, I'm sure," he said, placing his hand over the deck to keep it from spilling to the floor.

"Ah, that's right. It was a prince you were hiding." She carefully pulled a card from beneath his hand.

"Cleverly disguised as a knight. Speaking of knights, do you have any?"

"I have one in my party, yes. And a templar, too." Myranda pulled a card from her hand—the knight of hearts, which was portrayed in the deck with a templar shield—and held it up between two fingers. She pulled it away when he started to reach for it. "Promise you won't let anything happen to him?" she asked with a slight smile. "He's become a very dear friend to me."

He met her grin with one of his own. "I promise." He took the card from her when she held it out to him. "Though I'm sure he wouldn't willingly be parted from such a beautiful woman."

Myranda blushed a little and looked at the cards in her hand. "The game's called 'Fishing,' Alistair, not 'Flattery.'"

"Oh, right. Sorry. It's just _so_ easy to do."

She looked back at him, smiling a little before looking away in embarrassment. "It's... still your turn."

They managed to make it through the rest of the game without incident, despite how the ship pitched and rolled gently. Myranda grabbed her comb and walked to the window as Alistair put away the cards, staring out at the grey sky over the darker grey lake. "I never liked rainy days," she said, pulling the comb through the tangles at the end of her hair, gently teasing them out. "They always depressed me."

"I didn't mind them so much," Alistair said, joining her at the window. "I liked to watch the rain fall... especially during lessons."

"I suppose the sound is relaxing," she relented. "And it is necessary... it allows the plants to grow and the rivers to run."

"And don't forget about mud puddles," he added, grinning at her.

She laughed softly. "Of course."

"I think that was my favorite part. I used to run outside after every rain storm and jump in every puddle I could find."

"Fergus and I did that too... no puddle in the castle escaped us. I remember..." her voice trailed off into a giggle. "One time, when I was five or six, I was running through the courtyard with Fergus splashing in all the puddles. The stones were slick, and I slipped and fell, getting mud all over my brand new dress." She grinned, continuing to pull the comb through her hair. "Mother was convinced that Fergus had pushed me, though, so he got blamed."

Alistair laughed. "I did something like that at the Chantry when I was eleven... only I jumped in a puddle that was deeper than I thought. It was fun, but I splashed mud all the way up to my chin. I tried to hide how dirty I was, but one of the brothers found out... probably because I left muddy footprints from the door all the way to my room." He rolled his eyes. "I knew I should've taken my boots off first. They made me scrub that entire carpet with what must have been the tiniest brush they could find."

Myranda laughed at the thought of a young Alistair sneaking through the Chantry covered in mud. "Rory and I got caught out in the rain one night on one of our walks," she said, placing the comb on the windowsill. "One minute it was dry, the next it was _pouring_. We managed to run under the battlements, but we still got soaked through. That was when..." she stopped suddenly, the smile leaving her face. That had been the night he'd kissed her for the first time.

"Myranda...?"

"Hm? Oh, I'm sorry." She pushed a lock of hair back behind her ear as she looked over at him and smiled a little. "It's nothing. I'm fine."

The electric tension that had started to build between them suddenly crackled in the air around them, making it difficult to breathe or think. The smile slowly faded from her lips as she saw a new and familiar spark kindle in his eyes, and found herself stepping closer to him before she realized she was moving. She lowered her eyes briefly before lifting them again, sliding her hands up to his chest as he wrapped his arms around her waist. Her eyes closed as he leaned toward her, tilting her head to rest her forehead against his. His heartbeat thudded against her palm, melting into her and becoming her own. They stood together for several long moments, panting softly as they hovered on the edge of the precipice, each waiting for the other to pull them both over the brink.

Then Myranda opened her eyes, and they realized what they were about to do.

In an instant the air pressed too close and the intimate moment became uncomfortable. Fear flashed in the depths of Alistair's eyes and alarm flooded Myranda's brain. They stepped quickly away from each other, looking away in embarrassment.

Alistair cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Um... what... what were we talking about?"

"I... don't have the faintest idea." Myranda felt slightly dizzy. How she could be perfectly comfortable around him one moment and feel so awkward the next was beyond her. Kissing him seemed like the most natural thing in the world for her to do, and yet every time she thought about it or tried, she panicked. It was worse than her situation with Rory after the forced dissolution of their relationship, because she had no logical reason to hold back. She leaned on the window ledge, staring down at the wood, not daring to meet his eyes lest she completely lose her senses.

"Well... um... I... guess I'll see you later... at dinner."

"Right." She listened to the pause before his footsteps crossed the room. They paused again at the door—the interval longer this time—before the door finally opened and shut softly behind him.

She lowered her head, her eyes closing against the twisting of her heart in her chest. She opened them again when she suddenly felt a droplet of water slipping down her cheek. She lifted a hand to her face, wiping the drop away before staring at her wet fingertips, running her thumb over them slowly in disbelief. She was... crying? Why? She took a shaky breath and released it again, finding that as she did so, the image of her fingertips wavered before clearing again as more tears slid down her face. She couldn't stop them, and it seemed trying to figure out the purpose for them only made them fall faster. Her heart felt heavy in her chest and her soul yearned for something she couldn't describe. She curled her hand into a fist and slammed it down on the window ledge as a soft sob escaped her. _'Stop crying, Myranda,'_ she told herself forcefully. _'_ Stop it _!'_ But she didn't stop. Instead she ached... wanting him to walk back through the door to hold her again and knowing in her heart of hearts the painful truth: that he had no thought of doing so.

 

Alistair stood listening at the door, only just making out the soft sound of her crying. Damn it, he'd messed up again. He'd cruelly reminded her of the man she'd loved before they had met... the man she still loved. He'd hurt her... the last thing he ever wanted to do. He lifted his hand to the doorknob, but stopped himself from actually taking it and opening the door. He was probably the last person she wanted to see. Myranda was the type of woman who didn't like to show anyone her weaknesses—her pain, her grief, or her despair. To walk in on her now would only invite her scorn and drive her further away from him.

His hand continued to hover above the doorknob. Was it so wrong to want to comfort her? She was hurting, and it was better to have a friend in times like these. He should do it. He should just take the knob and open the door. He could pretend to have forgotten something—it didn't matter what. And then he could take her back in his arms and hold her until she calmed down and her tears stopped. Oh, Maker... holding her had felt like a _dream_ and the mere thought of falling back into it was nearly enough to make him follow through on the mad plan.

 _Nearly_ enough.

But the fact of the matter was that if he were to walk in and see her crying, she'd resent him for witnessing her weakness. Granted, she'd cried on his shoulder before—once—but that was after Ostagar, and they had both been hurting. Now... now it would not be welcome. He dropped his hand with a soft sigh before turning and walking onto the deck. Maybe this time the rain would actually succeed in washing away the hurt.

 

 

Myranda opened the door to her cabin an hour later, thinking to go talk to Leliana. Maybe the bard would have a reason for her own foolish behavior. Attempts to figure out her feelings had only frustrated her—between fits of crying she had been so angry she wanted to kill something. At last it had occurred to her to talk to Leliana. The redhead seemed to know more about such things than she ever would.

She looked up at the sound of heavy footsteps to see Alistair descending the short stairwell to the corridor. He was soaked through to the bone, water dripping off his hair and clothes. He reached up to wipe the rain from his face and she bit her lip, noticing without realizing it how his shirt clung to him like a second skin, making all the muscle movements more obvious. "Alistair?" she whispered.

He looked up, startled. "Myranda..."

"You're all wet," she said. Stupidly.

"I've been up on deck."

"In the rain?"

"It's... letting up."

"But you've been out standing in the rain," she said. "Why?"

He looked away from her. He couldn't bear to look at her. The sight of her glorious green eyes rimmed in red and puffy from crying made his heart squeeze in his chest and sent sharp claws of guilt into his soul. But he couldn't tell her the reason, could he? Would she accept that he'd been standing in the cold rain trying to forget how it felt to hold her? Or to keep himself from wondering what her kiss tasted like? Or to search his soul to discover how she could make him dizzy with a smile? Would she believe him? "I don't know," he muttered after a few long moments.

She frowned and lowered her eyes. He did know. He just wasn't going to hurt her feelings by telling her their near-kiss had been a mistake. "You should go change into something dry," she said. "You'll catch your death if you don't."

"Maybe that's what I deserve," he murmured.

Myranda stared at him in shock. "You don't mean that, do you?"

Alistair looked back at her for a moment before looking away again.

They stood in an awkward silence before they both spoke at the same time.

"Alistair..."

"Myranda, I..."

They both stopped, looking at each other.

"Go ahead," Alistair said.

"No, no," Myranda demurred. "Please."

"No, I insist."

They looked at each other again before the hilarity of the situation suddenly struck Myranda and she laughed a little, nervously. "Do you realize how ridiculous we must sound?"

Alistair blinked before he smiled a little. "It is a little... foolish, isn't it?"

"Ah, but to be so happy about acting like a fool," she said, looking at him with a slight smile. Her smile faded again almost instantly when she remembered the last time she had used that line. She looked away and cleared her throat. "I'm... sorry if I was... out of line. Or if I made you uncomfortable."

"You didn't." He watched as she looked at him again and looked away. "But I hurt you. Earlier."

"You've never hurt me," she murmured. "I know you'd never hurt me."

He looked up at her and was a little surprised to find she had moved closer. The surprise melted away instantly as he reached hesitantly for her and found her hand went into his and she stepped closer still. She reached up with her other hand toward his face and he caught her hand, closing his eyes and trying not to lean into her touch. He felt her fingers wrap around his and opened his eyes again only to be dazzled by her emerald green ones. He swallowed as her eyes lowered briefly. Just a few inches separated them. It would be nothing to close the distance.

The door to Leliana's cabin opened then and they moved quickly away from each other, one on either side of the narrow corridor, not looking at each other.

The bard looked slowly between them, a slightly puzzled look on her face. "I'm sorry," she said slowly. "Did I... interrupt something?"

"No," Myranda said, turning and retreating back to her cabin and closing the door.

Leliana looked at Alistair then, who only shook his head and turned toward his own cabin, closing the door behind him. The redhead looked between the two doors before setting her jaw. Perhaps it was time she gave the Grey Wardens a little push.

 

 

_\---Evening---_

Myranda turned at the soft sound of a stringed instrument being tuned to see Leliana sitting by the fire with her lute. All at once, the redhead plucked a few pleasant-sounding chords and a light, playful melody, a small smile crossing her face before she started to sing.

" _Come by the hills to the land where fancy is free._ "

Myranda smiled as Leliana sang the old Fereldan folk song. It was good to hear it again, though she was a bit surprised the Orlesian woman knew it. She found herself swaying back and forth slightly to the sweet melody as she walked over to the fire. She twirled around at one point and looked up, laughing in embarrassment when she caught Alistair looking at her. "Hi."

He smiled a little. "Do you dance?"

"Oh... I used to. A long time ago." She looked at him. "Do you?"

"No," he said, holding up his hands as if in surrender. "Oh, no. I have two left feet."

She giggled. "Maybe I can teach you sometime. You can't be any worse than Fergus was."

"Bad?"

 She laughed.  "He was _terrible_. I almost couldn't dance at the wedding from the injuries to my feet."

"But he got better?"

"Only after we poured a few pints into him and I started punching him when he trampled on my feet."

Alistair chuckled. "You beat up on him a lot, didn't you?"

Myranda smiled, leaning on the deck railing and staring down into the dark water below. "I grew up around boys," she said as he leaned on the rail next to her, "so I was just as bad as them at times. They tried to teach me the skills of a young lady—I know what is required of a woman of my stature and status and I can perform the duties when necessary—but I was always more comfortable in my armor in the training ring than in a gown at a salon. Ugh, the idle gossip and prattle of the other women used to bore me almost to tears." She shook her head a little. "I... can't say I had many friends amongst the other nobles' daughters. The ones who weren't afraid of me sneered at me for being unladylike." She frowned. "One told me once that I was lucky I was a Cousland... otherwise I'd never find a man who wanted me."

"Why would she say that?"

She looked over at him. "You've seen how I am."

"Yes, I have."

"Then you should know. I'm just as good—if not better—with a sword as most men. And I can probably count on one hand the men who are better archers. And I speak my mind. Most men are threatened by a woman who can and will go toe-to-toe with them... most don't want a strong woman." She looked back down at the water. "And I... guess she was right. Any man looking for a match would probably be willing to overlook my faults to gain the prestige of being tied to my family."

"I don't think you have any faults," Alistair said softly.

Myranda laughed a little, turning and leaning back against the rail. "I have _many_ faults, Alistair," she said, looking over at him.

"Oh, I... I mean, we all have faults," he stammered. "But I don't think your skills are faults. They're part of what make you the person you are. And I'm glad you have them... if you didn't, you wouldn't be a Grey Warden, and I never would have met you. And I'm glad I did." He smiled gently at her. "You're an amazing woman, Myranda."

She blushed and looked away. "Thank you," she whispered. She glanced back up at him and smiled before soft applause drew their attention to the bard. Leliana lifted a hand briefly before strumming the beginning of the next song. The tune was softer and more soothing than the last and lulled everyone listening into a peaceful serenity.

Myranda reached over and took Alistair's hand shyly as the redhead began singing about traveling a never-ending road, a smile creeping up her lips as he interlaced their fingers. She felt so giddy and ridiculous, like a girl with a new love. She loved and hated the feeling, but at that moment, the cursed confusion didn't matter. She didn't care. She didn't know anything but the contented bliss that warmed her heart. She felt so warm and comfortable, everything else was beginning to vanish. It was just the two of them... and the music that wove through the air and surrounded them. She leaned her head against his shoulder, closing her eyes as she enjoyed his warmth and presence and the peace that was settling over the vessel.

Alistair looked at her before a soft smile crossed his lips. He leaned his cheek against the top of her head, enjoying the feel of her soft hair. He closed his eyes, relaxing with the music and the heat from her body. It was nice having her so close... maybe too nice.

Being near her was becoming a physical need. The sight of her smile and the sound of her laugh were addicting in a way the lyrium could never have been. She did the strangest things to him, her very presence making him lightheaded and dizzy while his heart squeezed in his chest. He sighed softly, the familiar dull ache clutching his chest as she stepped closer and snuggled against him.

There was no point in denying it any longer. He cared for her... genuinely and deeply cared. He'd tried to keep his love platonic, to think of her only as a friend or even as a sister, but along the way something had captivated his very soul. He'd discovered suddenly that his desire to be close to her came from a deeper source than it had originally. His attachment was beyond emotional. Certainly it had started that way, but something had... changed. He wasn't sure when or how, but he didn't really care. He just wanted to stay right here, next to her, for the rest of his life. He could live with his feelings never being returned—miserable and painful existence though it would be—as long as he was with her. As long as he could see her smile every day, he'd be content. He would do anything for her and follow her anywhere, even beyond the Fade into death.

" _These are my dreams, so simple and few,_ " Leliana sang. She'd closed her eyes at some point—she'd forgotten when—to concentrate on pouring her entire soul, with all her skill, into the music. " _Dreams we hold..._ " she let the lute fall silent, lingering slightly on the notes as she neared the end of the song, " _in the palm of..._ " She opened her eyes and couldn't help the smile that crossed her lips at the sight of the tender moment between Myranda and Alistair. " _...our hands._ " She plucked the melody of the verse again, slowly humming a reprise of the chorus before ending, letting the notes dissipate into the air. There was silence but for the crackling fire for a few moments before she began to play a gentle lullaby that would send most of the crowd to their beds and lull the two Grey Wardens into a more comfortable complacency, thus allowing their obvious mutual love to finally bloom and their desires to make themselves known.

Myranda felt herself relaxing completely as the quiet melody floated on the air around her. She was so warm... felt so safe and at peace. She took a deep breath, taking in the smoke from the fire, the smell of the lake, and the intoxicating mixture of salt and tangy spice that was wholly and completely Alistair. She tilted her head up slightly and took another breath of the exhilarating scent, a scent that her instinct instantly recognized: _male_. It had been so long.... How nice it would be to sleep cradled against a firm body. To be cherished and loved. To experience the indescribable and invigorating high that came from shared passion and desire. She wanted it... oh, how she wanted it... but she would have to move slowly.

But there was another need beyond the physical one: a desire to simply be near him, no matter what. She owed him her life and her sanity, a debt she could never repay. She had been lured out by his honest sincerity, a trait that had made her trust him at a time when she trusted no one. He had warmed her with his compassion, a heat that had burned at first in its intensity until the ice started to melt from around her heart. He had reintroduced her to the light by making her laugh, and though she could still feel a darkness curled in a corner of her soul, it no longer threatened to consume her. He had beaten it back and had, all unknowing, loved her back toward life... even if that love was most likely going to forever remain platonic.

Alistair sighed softly. He wanted her. If he was sure of nothing else, he felt he was absolutely certain of that one simple fact. He had no idea how to tell her or what to do if the situation did take that turn, but, in that moment, his inexperience didn't matter. He was lost in the moment, the sound of the music mingling with the crackling fire, the soft scent of her hair, and the feel of her body pressed against him. He wanted... no. He _needed_ her. He needed to be with her, always, if for no other reason then for the privilege of being able to look into her eyes.

Her dazzling emerald eyes had mesmerized him from the first, remarkable in their beauty and their intensity. He'd been drawn to her eyes like a moth to the flame—more so after the iciness in them had given way to her natural warmth. He'd fallen into the bright green pools on that ridge in Redcliffe, had lost his way in their depths, and had no desire to find his way out again. He nuzzled his cheek against the top of her head, breathing the soft rosy scent of her hair, and thought suddenly of the night she had appeared as a Vision in the camp after her bath. She had looked so beautiful... her eyes had sparkled in the firelight and her hair had shone like liquid gold. The way it had fallen around her, the gentle waves caressing her cheeks and neck as they tumbled down her back and over her shoulders, had seemed extraordinary. He had ached to run his fingers through it, though at the time the desire had seemed to come from nowhere. The thick blonde tresses had looked so luxuriously soft... like her lips, which he'd found himself thinking about more and more often. Her full and expressive lips looked as soft as rose petals, and it made him wonder if they were as soft as they looked. He wondered how they would feel... and taste.

He took a deep breath and released it slowly, quickly reining in his imagination despite how the scent of her hair made his head spin. Having her so close was making him crazy. "Myranda?"

Myranda fought the tremor of delight that threatened to roll through her. The way he'd murmured her name breathlessly into her hair was incredibly arousing. "Hmm?"

"I... think it's time we went to bed."

"Mmm." Well... she hadn't expected him to be quite so bold about it, but it was a pleasant surprise. "I quite agree." She half opened her eyes and looked up at him with a small, suggestive smile on her face. It was in that moment that the paradox of what he'd said and what he'd meant crashed down around them. Myranda blinked twice, her eyes opening fully as she realized she had taken the sentence in the completely wrong direction. Dearest Andraste, what... why had she been thinking about him like that, all of a sudden? She stood up straight and released his hand as she cleared her throat, feeling the intense heat of a dark blush in her cheeks. "Yes," she said, stepping away from him and looking away. "Bed. Sleep. Right."

A sour chord broke the still air and they looked at the bard to see her leaning over her instrument, suddenly retuning.

Leliana leaned over the lute to hide the look of frustration on her face. Perhaps she was losing her touch. There was a time, not so very long ago, that she could have enchanted anyone to do anything she wanted with her music and song. Why were they making it so difficult on themselves?

Alistair and Myranda looked at each other uncertainly before he waved her toward the stern of the ship, inviting her to precede him. Outside her cabin door, they were met by another awkward silence as they both tried to figure out the appropriate thing to say.

"Well... I... hope you sleep well," Myranda said.

"You too." He gave her a concerned look. "You'll let me know if you need me?"

"Yes."

They looked at each other, suddenly realizing how the question could be taken and looking away again.

Alistair cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Well, um, good night."

"Alistair," Myranda said, feeling the vague need to apologize, though she'd done nothing wrong. "Alistair, I... I'm sorry. I don't know what got into me earlier... up on deck."

He smiled a little. "It's late," he said. "Maybe you're tired... or maybe the heat from the fire was getting to you." His heart wrenched in his chest as a malicious voice in his mind whispered, _'Maybe she thought you were someone else.'_

Myranda's brow furrowed as she watched the pained expression pass over his face. "Maybe I am just tired," she admitted. "I thought I could drift right to sleep." She smiled a little up at him. "I've never felt so comfortable with someone... comfortable and safe."

Alistair smiled slightly. He started to lift his hand toward her face, then stopped, not daring to go through with it. They stared at each other for a few moments before he finally rested his hand on her shoulder. "Get some sleep."

Myranda sighed, lowering her eyes and nodding. She'd silently begged him to kiss her—that was all she wanted—but she might have known he wouldn't. "Right," she murmured. "Good night, then."

"Good night." He gave her shoulder a light squeeze before turning toward his own cabin, kicking himself for being such a coward. But it wasn't him she wanted... and how could he compete with a ghost?

She watched him for a moment, opening her mouth to call him before sighing in defeat and turning to walk into her cabin.

 

 

Myranda lay in bed for several long hours, trying to calm her roiling stomach and soothe her aching heart. Why couldn't she just tell him how she felt? Oh, she knew the answer to that. He was inexperienced, and she was afraid—terrified—of scaring him away. But then, why had it seemed like he'd wanted to kiss her? Why hadn't he? Why hadn't _she_ kissed _him_? Why did the very thought make her feel shy and awkward?

Why, why, _why_?

Warden or no, she was still a woman, and she had needs. It had been nine months since she had shared a bed with a man... nine long, frustrating months. There had been nights before they got to the tower when she had ached for a companion, and had been surprised later to find that her fantasies were not memories of her nights with Rory, or even an alternate ending to her heated encounter with Teagan. Instead, she had found her mind sneaking into Alistair's bed and coming up with the most delightful scenarios—hours of teasing and touching before finally, when she was certain she could stand it no longer, two became one. She had had to bury her face into her pillow more than once to muffle her moans as she tried to sate her aching desire, and though she knew exactly what to do to stimulate a release, she was always left feeling unsatisfied. During the day she thought nothing of it—almost nothing—but it seemed as soon as the sun went down her desperate longing would crash down upon her. She knew she shouldn't think of him in that way... he only thought of her as a friend after all. But she just couldn't help it anymore.

She heard the door to the cabin next to hers open and close softly and her breath caught. She listened to the familiar footsteps as they walked slowly down the corridor and paused outside her door. She sat up slowly as the interval continued to lengthen, her heart pounding softly in her ears. She tried to call out to him, but something closed her throat around the words. The same something paralyzed her, keeping her from going to the door. She strained to hear if he would knock, praying to both the Maker and Andraste and hoping They would hear her.

It was to her great disappointment that the footsteps finally continued past her door. She sighed heavily, laying back down and throwing her arm over her eyes. She might have known. But if it was what she wanted, why had she hesitated? Perhaps he wasn't ready for that step. Perhaps... perhaps he didn't want her. No... the true difficulty wasn't on his part or her perception of it. It was her fault. She rolled over and punched her pillow in frustration. Damn him! Why did he have to be so delightfully awkward and incredibly sincere? He was handsome and witty and charming and fun and perfect. He was everything she'd ever dreamed of in a man... and she was completely terrified of him.

Why... why was she so afraid? The question haunted her until she fell asleep.


	17. Salvation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party arrives back at Redcliffe and saves Connor. Myranda and Alistair also come to realizations about each other...

**Chapter 17: Salvation**

_"The face is the mirror of the mind, and eyes without speaking confess the secrets of the heart." ~St. Jerome_

 

It was still dark outside when Myranda opened her eyes. Something was wrong. It was quiet... too quiet. She reached out from under the blanket to feel for Baby's reassuring presence, but the mabari was gone. She sat up slowly, looking around. "Baby?" she called softly.

There was no answer.

She got out of bed quickly. Something was certainly wrong—Baby never left her bedside at night. She walked out of her tent and opened her mouth to call the dog again, but the words turned to ash in her mouth.

The camp was a sight of unparalleled savagery. The smell of death permeated the air, mostly from the darkspawn corpses that littered the ground, but they were not the only ones who numbered among the dead. Baby lay in a small puddle of blood, his teeth still gouging the neck of the darkspawn he'd been attacking before being cut down. She shook her head in disbelief. No... not her Baby....

She jogged over to Morrigan's tent only to find the young witch had an arrow through her heart and her throat had been brutally slashed. The sight of a dead body had disturbed her only once before, but a wave of nausea rose in her throat at the sight. She backed away and moved quickly back toward the main camp. There was Sten's body, his head severed from his torso. Leliana, brutally run through by a sword. Wynne, downed by the arrow that still protruded from her throat.

She was running now. Alistair. Where was Alistair? She rounded the corner of his tent and stopped short, stunned by the sight that met her eyes.

He lay in the center of a large circle of darkspawn, three or four dozen, at least. His eyes were closed and his features were so serene it would have been easy to mistake him for being asleep. The red pool of his blood was unbelievably bright and shimmered in the moonlight as it spread in a slowly expanding circle around his body.

Myranda's eyes widened in horror. "No," she breathed before a scream escaped her. " _No!_ "

 

Myranda was startled awake by the scream that tore from her throat, unsure for a moment where she was. She heard Baby barking loudly outside the door, as well as the sound of several pairs of running feet. She could sense them: darkspawn. Determined not to be caught in bed by her attackers, she dove for her weapons, mad hysteria filling her brain. She had to find Alistair. And if these monsters had killed him, woe be to all that got in her path.

She heard the door slam open and turned with a savage yell, slashing down with her sword as she lunged forward to bury her dagger into flesh. Neither attack succeeded: another blade lifted to parry her sword with a loud clang while a hand wrapped firmly around her wrist, stopping the dagger from doing any damage.

"Myranda!"

Myranda looked up, startled. She panted with adrenaline and fear as she gazed into the warm, worry-filled hazel eyes, recognition slowly dawning on her. "Alistair?" she whispered, the blades falling from her hands. She blinked hard as he released her wrist, dismissing the last phantoms of her dream from her brain and trying to stop the tears that welled in her eyes even as they started to fall down her cheeks. He was there, and he was alive. "Alistair!" she cried, throwing herself against him and wrapping her arms around him. "Oh, thank the Maker!"

Alistair immediately dropped his sword before wrapping his arms around her, holding her tightly against him. She was shivering, and not only from her obvious fear. Her shirt was almost completely soaked through with sweat. "It's all right, Myranda," he murmured, leaning his cheek against the top of her head and listening to her muffled sobs. "I'm here."

"Alistair?" another voice called.

"Nothing to worry about," he called back, not moving. "Just a nightmare." Then, lowering his voice, he murmured to the blonde woman, "You're safe. It was just a nightmare."

"I thought... I thought you were..."

"Shhh," he hushed her, lifting one hand to cradle her head against his shoulder as the words were choked off. "It's all right. It's over. It's all over; I'm here. I'm right here... you're safe now."

Myranda clutched his shirt tightly, curling closer to him and ignoring the tears of relief that slipped down her cheeks. Her sobs slowly lessened as he continued to murmur soft reassurances to her, the mere sound of his voice comforting her. She breathed in his tangy-sweet scent and waited for her racing heart to slow, trying to calm her shudders. Her residual fear and her drying sweat, however, made the feat impossible.

"Come on," Alistair murmured after several long minutes. "Come sit by the fire. That should help."

She nodded, sniffling a little and running a hand over her cheeks to wipe away the tears. She reached over to grab her blanket from where it had fallen to the floor and wrapped it around her shoulders before allowing him to steer her out of the cabin and up onto the deck. She could feel eyes on her as she passed, but she ignored them all. They could think what they wanted; she didn't care.

She shivered in the cool night air, pressing closer to Alistair as they made their way toward the fire blazing near the ship's bow. He led her to a sheltered place and, with great relief, she sank down to the planks, sitting with her back against the deck railing and clutching her blanket tightly around her. "Thank you," she said. "You can go back to bed now."

Alistair looked down at her worriedly. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," she said, trying to keep her teeth from chattering audibly. "I'll be fine in a little while."

He stood beside her for a few moments, hesitating, before walking back toward the stern.

Myranda breathed the cool, crisp air deeply, letting it clear her head and dismiss the nightmare in its entirety. She looked over at Baby as he trotted over to sit on her left, tilting his head and whining worriedly at her. A small smile crossed her lips and she hugged the huge mabari gently around the neck with her left arm as she continued to hold the blanket in her right hand. "Don't worry," she murmured. "I'm all right now. Go back to sleep."

Baby sniffed at her before turning in a circle and laying down next to her.

Myranda petted the dog gently before looking over at Alistair as he returned and sat on her other side, laying a second blanket across her lap. "You don't have to sit up with me," she told him.

"It's all right. I don't mind."

"Alistair, I..." she stopped, the words failing her. "I'm sorry," she said, looking away.

"Don't worry about it," he said, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. "I haven't been sleeping well, either."

She looked up at him and smiled wanly before clutching the blanket tighter around her and turning back to the fire, leaning her head back against his shoulder. They sat in silence for a few moments before she reached over and slid her left hand into his right. His fingers immediately wrapped around hers and she allowed herself to smile a little.

"Get some more sleep if you can," he said.

"Thank you but I... I think I'd rather stay awake."

He nodded, giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

Myranda sighed. Silence and stillness once again settled over the small vessel, and a soothing peace washed over her. "Thank you," she murmured after several long, quiet minutes, shifting slightly to nestle her head against his neck.

"Don't mention it."

His voice had lowered slightly, slurred with contented fatigue, and the sound nearly made her shudder delightfully. She listened as his breathing slowed and deepened, knowing the instant he fell asleep. She closed her eyes, taking comfort in the sound of his deep, even breathing and the gentle beat of his heart. The soft sounds, combined with the gentle crackling of the fire and the lapping of the water against the hull, lulled her into a comfortable complacency, and the warmth of Alistair's body with the heat from the fire relaxed her further.

She caught herself dozing and started back awake, disturbing Alistair as well. He took a deep breath, hugging her closer to him. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"It's all right, Myranda," he murmured sleepily, nuzzling her hair. "You can relax now—you're safe."

She sighed, closing her eyes again as he moved his hand to interlace their fingers.

"I won't let any harm come to you. I swear it."

Myranda's eyes snapped open. There was something in the way he'd made the promise that shot through to her core. Perhaps it was the sound of his voice, pitched slightly lower in his half-asleep state. Perhaps it was the protective overtones. Perhaps it was just the way the words brushed against her hair. Whatever it was it made her feel... cherished. Loved, even.

 _'Oh, don't be ridiculous, Myranda,'_ she scolded herself.

She blinked slowly, her heart softening the bitter reprimand. Was it so ridiculous to think that he loved her? Certainly he treasured her as a friend... that much had been made clear. And there was a kind of love that existed between friends that made siblings of strangers. Maybe he did love her... but only as a sister.

She winced as her heart wrenched in her chest. The explanation was a logical one—why did it hurt so much to think of it? She closed her eyes and shifted gently to nuzzle her face against his neck, breathing in the slightly salty tang that clung to him like a perfume. She didn't want him to think of her as a sister, she realized. But was that fair of her, to want him to give his heart to her when she was afraid to love him wholly and completely? It would be something to ponder as she waited for the sun to rise.

 

 

When Myranda opened her eyes again the sky was pale with the approaching dawn. Despite her valiant attempt, she had apparently fallen back asleep, though it wasn't difficult to discern why.

She had shifted at some point in the early morning hours to rest her head on Alistair's chest as she lay curled against his side, and the soft beat of his heart accompanied by the rhythm of his breathing was incredibly soothing. His hand had dropped from her shoulder to rest in the curve of her waist, and she had threaded one knee intimately between his. Her right hand, which had held her blanket so tightly around her, had crept around his waist to clutch his shirt gently. The fingers of their free hands were still interlaced.

She looked up without moving her head when she heard him take a deep breath, listening to him sigh softly. She closed her eyes and smiled despite herself. She wasn't sure if it was supposed to feel so... right, waking up next to him like this, but at that moment, it didn't matter. She could imagine what Wynne or Leliana would say if either of them caught them in their current, somewhat compromising position, but she didn't much care. Whatever they said or thought about her would probably be true.

She listened to him stir and slowly wake. He sighed contently as he nuzzled his cheek against the top of her head, his arm tightening slightly around her waist. She could almost tell the moment when his eyes opened, could almost see the soft, tender smile that crossed his lips as he squeezed her hand gently.

Then he must have realized the position they were in because he tensed suddenly, lifting his fingers slowly, one at a time, from her waist before very carefully removing his hand. Myranda smiled at his cautious tension. "Afraid of what I'm going to say, are you?" she asked, feeling him start with surprise as she spoke.

"I've found it's better not to get yelled at first thing in the morning."

She laughed softly in her throat before yawning and snuggling closer to him. "You say that like you expect me to protest to the idea of sleeping with you." There was a heavy, pregnant pause and, in that moment, Myranda realized how the sentence sounded. She opened her eyes and deliberately disentangled herself as she sat up, clearing her throat. "I mean, we would only sleep... and there's no harm in that," she said, though she knew the words were a lie. She wouldn't allow them to 'only sleep'... not at first.

"I... suppose not," Alistair said, though he didn't think there would be much sleeping being done... if he could only find the nerve to ask!

She glanced up at him, then away. "I'm... sorry I woke you last night," she said, moving away from the uncomfortable topic.

"All Grey Wardens have nightmares, Myranda."

"So you keep reminding me." She looked at him again. "But I still apologize for waking you."

He smiled a little at her. "There's no need to apologize. I wasn't asleep, so you didn't wake me."

She felt the corners of her mouth lifting in a small, grateful smile and looked away shyly. When she lifted her eyes again, something crackled between them and Myranda felt a bolt shoot through her veins, white hot and terrifying in its intensity. Three words, words she had been trying to avoid, rose in her throat and got stuck there, making it difficult to breathe... and her ability to think was quickly leaving her.

The sudden desire to lean forward and kiss him flooded through Myranda in that moment. One kiss... it would be easy. Anticipation coiled within her. She wanted to... had wanted to for some time. And he probably wouldn't be unwilling... the way he looked at her almost certainly confirmed that. She could kiss him now or she could flee from the situation yet again.

She watched as a terrible nervous fear rose in his eyes and, realizing what she had almost done, cleared her throat, blushing as she looked away. "Anyway... um... thank you." She looked at the fire, at the planks beneath her, at the lavender-colored sky... _anywhere_ but at him. "Well... I... guess I should get back to my cabin," she said, gathering her blanket and standing. "Try to get a little more sleep."

"Right."

She paused at the subtle disappointment in his voice and forced herself to smile a little. "Thank you, Alistair," she said softly, "for being there to protect me."

He smiled back slightly. "You're welcome."

She blushed again and looked away. "Well... good night... er... morning," she murmured before hurrying away.

 

 

They didn't say much to each other that day. They barely even looked at each other, and when they did, the tension between them was almost tangible.

Myranda hated the terrible, awkward silence. What, however, could she say? She hated feeling so incredibly uncomfortable, but it was becoming a constant companion... especially whenever Alistair smiled at her. She sighed. Maker help her, even _thinking_ about it caused her heart to squeeze painfully in her chest.

What was the matter with her, anyway? Well... perhaps she knew the answer to that. She was fond of him. Terribly fond. But did she... oh, did she dare to even think it? Did she dare to allow herself to feel what her heart knew was happening? It felt alarmingly like something she'd felt for Rory. She'd loved him... she had thought then that she did. But Rory's very presence had never made her dizzy and uncomfortable. She'd never felt so disoriented and confused.

But... she'd never felt as _happy_ with Rory as she did with Alistair. She'd never felt as free... never felt like she could speak as freely with Rory. And waking up next to Alistair had felt incredibly right—she'd felt complete, though they'd done nothing but sleep. It made her exceedingly curious as to how she'd feel after....

She shook her head. Best not to pursue that line of thought, as delightful as it may be. Not consciously, anyway... her daydreams were another matter.

She looked down at Baby when he sighed heavily. "Don't give me that," she said. "What would you have me do?"

He looked up at her and barked.

"You'd have me panting after him like a bitch in heat?"

Baby whined conversationally, cocking his head to one side.

"No, I am certainly not doing that already!"

He whined again.

"I am _not_... all right, technically I _am_ 'in heat,' but that is entirely beside the point! I can't just walk up to him and say, 'So, why don't you join me in my cabin tonight?'" She sat heavily on a coil of rope. "He'd think I was joking!" She dropped her face into her hands, a feeling of utter hopelessness washing through her. "Oh... what am I going to do?"

Baby sighed again softly, resting his chin on her knee.

Myranda breathed a sigh of her own, reaching down to pat the dog. "I know," she said. "You're just worried about me. You're a good boy." She moved her hand to scratch him behind the ear. "Why can't this be easy like it was with Rory? It seems so natural, but I just... can't. Is it because I'm not...?" her voice trailed off and she found she wasn't able to say the words aloud.

Baby whined.

"I don't know," she murmured. "I just don't know."

But she did know. The fact of the matter was that she was afraid to love him. They were in too much danger for her to love him. And the thought of what it meant terrified her. She was more afraid of that simple emotion than anyone in their right mind should have been. She felt like an absolute fool.

 

Alistair sighed, leaning on the deck railing and staring down at the water. He felt like an absolute fool. What was he going to do? What was he _supposed_ to do? He had no idea how to proceed in this situation, and it seemed everything he did was ruining his chances of ever getting her to care about him the way he did about her. Why hadn't he told her that morning how he felt? Why hadn't he answered the question in her eyes and kissed her? Or had he _imagined_ her desire? He sighed again, heavily. Damn it, what was he going to do?

"You look troubled, Alistair," Wynne said suddenly, sounding concerned. "Is there something on your mind?"

"No... well, nothing important, anyway."

She lifted one eyebrow slightly at his distant, evasive answer before shrugging. "All right. If you're sure." But she stayed, waiting for him to ask about whatever was on his mind.

There were several long moments of silence before Alistair finally spoke again, as she had known he would.

"So... what would you do if someone told you that they loved you?"

Wynne laughed a little. "Check their eyesight first, perhaps. Is this someone I should know about?"

He shook his head. "No, I mean, pretend you're a woman."

"I _am_ a woman, Alistair. That shouldn't be _too_ hard. But I'll give it a try."

"Ahhh, that's... oh... that's not what I meant." He sighed in frustration and looked at her helplessly. "Just... pretend you're _another_ woman. Someone told you that they loved you. How would you react?"

The mage thought for a moment. "Well, that depends. Does this someone just blurt it out? Do I love them back? I need context."

This last question caught Alistair off-guard. "I... I don't know... if you love him back," he said, trying not to look toward the bow and Myranda. "Maybe you do. You've spent a lot of time with this person...."

"Perhaps you need to wait for the right moment," Wynne said. "You could... get her alone somewhere. Give her a gift, perhaps."

"Oh, I—I wasn't talking about me! Just, um..." he trailed off, trying desperately to think of a cover story before sighing softly in defeat. "Forget I said anything."

Wynne chuckled softly. "As you wish."

 

 

It was late afternoon before Alistair worked up the nerve to approach Myranda again. By that time he was sure he could talk to her without blurting out something stupid like "I love you more than anything." "Myranda?" he said hesitantly as he walked over to her.

She looked back at him over her shoulder. "Hi," she said with a slight smile.

"I... I was wondering if... if we should talk about what happened this morning."

Myranda shook her head as she turned to face him. "I don't think there's anything to say, Alistair. Nothing really happened, so there's no use worrying about it." She lowered her eyes. "Maybe... maybe it would be best if we just forgot about it."

"Er... right," he said. "Of course."

They stood in an awkward silence for several long moments before Myranda spoke again.

"I... I'm sorry if-if I've made you uncomfortable the past few days... if I've done something or said anything that offended you."

"Oh, no, no!" he said quickly. "No, of course you haven't."

"I just... I just don't want to lose your friendship," she said, looking up at him.

He smiled gently. "I don't think that's possible."

She smiled a little. "I'm glad. And Maker knows you should be used to my teasing by now."

"I should be." He looked at her for a moment. "I'm just glad you're all right."

"Oh... yes. I was much better this morning." She bit her lip. "Sometimes... sometimes a woman just likes to be held. To feel... I don't know. Safe, I suppose. Or protected. And I guess... I guess some part of me just needed that."

Alistair looked at her for a moment before placing a hand lightly on her shoulder, causing her to look up at him. "I'll always be here for you," he said. "Any time you need me..."

"Thank you, Alistair," she murmured, smiling gently.

He returned her smile, sliding his hand around her shoulders as she leaned against him. He closed his eyes as her arms wrapped around him, enjoying the sensation while it lasted. Holding her was like a _dream_... and he never wanted to let go. Maybe... Maybe now was the time to tell her how he felt. She snuggled closer and his heart melted. Yes. Surely now was the time. "Myranda?"

"Hm?"

"I-I think... I should tell you..."

"Yes?"

He looked at her as she lifted her eyes to his, and the sight of her dazzling emeralds, glittering with an emotion he didn't dare name, caused him to falter and lose his nerve. "I... I've been really glad for your company. Through... everything." He watched as a small smile lifted the corners of her lips and only just stopped himself from leaning over and kissing her.

"I'm glad you're here with me," she said. "You're a dear friend and I... I can't imagine where I'd be if it weren't for you." She lifted a hand to his cheek. "Thank you. For everything."

He returned her smile, lifting his hand to take hers and loving how her fingers wrapped around his. They stared at each other for several long moments before she looked away, biting her lip in such a way that only made her look more attractive than before. Then she stepped away and he realized he had started to lean toward her again.

"Well," she said. "At least we got that cleared up."

"Um... yeah."

She looked at him and smiled a little. "Thank the Maker we'll be back on the road tomorrow. I haven't been sure what to do with all this time we've had."

"Yeah... too much time to think." He smirked. "Not that I have to worry about that."

She giggled. "I don't know. I'd say you've been doing a lot of thinking recently."

He stared at her in apparent shock. "Who, me?"

"Yes, you." She gave him a critical look. "I just haven't been able to figure out what you've been thinking about."

"Are you sure you want to know?"

She lifted an eyebrow at him. "Do I?"

"Maybe," he said slowly, grinning at her.

"Oh." An interested gleam sparkled in her eyes. "Well now I'll have to work harder on it." She grinned and shook her finger at him. "Though if I find out you're planning a mutiny..."

He laughed at that. "It'd never work," he said. "I'm pretty sure everyone likes you a lot better than they like me."

"I wouldn't say 'everyone,'" she said. "I can think of someone who likes you better."

Alistair blinked. "Who?"

But she didn't reply, just grinned and gave him a flirtatious wink before walking away.

 

 

That night, Alistair stared into the fire as if searching for the meaning of life in the dancing flames, but found his eyes kept wandering over to where Myranda lay sleeping. She had promised to share the watch with him, offering to take the first shift but relenting when he insisted she get some sleep first. She lay on a bedroll that had been set up on the deck by the fire, the soft light playing across her delicate and serene features. The blanket had fallen from her shoulder and pooled at her waist, drawing his eye down along the smooth curve of her hip.

He felt himself starting to blush and looked away. What was he going to do? Wynne had immediately noticed his interest in Myranda. He'd all but _told_ Leliana that he liked the blonde woman. The whole ship had probably picked up on it by now. But maybe... maybe Myranda herself hadn't noticed.

He rolled his eyes. _Right_ , and maybe they'd find a clutch of griffon eggs tomorrow, too.

A soft moan drew his attention back to Myranda. She murmured something too softly for him to hear and one hand clutched her pillow as she nuzzled it and sank back into the depths of sleep.

He sighed and turned his thoughts back to his problem, remembering the conversation he'd had earlier with Wynne. "Get her alone somewhere," she'd said. That might work if he could stop acting like a nervous idiot in Myranda's presence... which would probably never happen. All she had to do was look at him and his head started to feel fuzzy, which made thinking incredibly difficult. His imagination had started to run away more often than it ever had before, and what had happened that morning had only added fuel to the fire. In the seconds before his flustered embarrassment had pushed her away, he had marveled at how natural it felt to wake up next to her. She had been so warm, and soft in ways that made him blush to remember. And how many times over the past three days had he nearly kissed her? Just the thought of it... oh, Maker, how sweet her kiss would be! And he had thought about... well, of course he had. But he couldn't bring himself to broach the subject.

Being close to her and traveling with her allowed him to see all the little things she did that translated into his dreams and fantasies... things he had started to find terribly attractive. And it was more than the sway of her hips or the curve of her face. It was the way her eyes seemed to light up when she looked at him... and how she wrinkled her nose when she giggled... and how her voice changed slightly when she was speaking to him, becoming softer and more gentle. She seemed to truly care about him, but she probably only cared for him as a friend. And he'd tried to think of her as a sister, but no brother would think about a sibling the way he had started to think about her—the fantasies that waltzed through his mind were almost obscene.

He looked up as Myranda shifted in her sleep, moaning and twisting her hip a little as her legs slid slightly apart beneath the blanket. Her fingernails dug slightly into the pillow as she tilted her head back to expose her throat. Then she sighed softly before settling back into sleep.

Alistair chewed on his lower lip as he watched her move, taking a deep breath as she grew still again. The way the light had flickered across the smooth skin of her throat had begun to do the strangest things to him. And his current train of thought hadn't helped matters. Though he shouldn't have been thinking about that in the first place. He sighed softly. She could make the most devoted Chantry monk regret his vows. And there was no reason to believe she was dreaming about... that. And _certainly_ not with him. Although... the thought that she _was_ thinking about him was a pleasant one, if unfounded. He dreamed about her often enough, though he knew he'd rather stop simply dreaming.

But how did a person just suggest such a thing? He had no idea. Surely it wasn't as simple as 'So how would you like to join me in my tent?' Oh no... such things were _never_ that simple. And he'd never thought of any woman quite that way before. Oh, he'd thought about it in _theory_ , but... He sighed. He felt so awkward even thinking about it. And even if he managed to find the words and the nerve to suggest it, who was to say that she wouldn't stare at him in shock? Or—worse—that she would laugh, thinking it a joke on his part? He sighed again, heavily. He just didn't know what to do... and wished with all his heart that he did.

He looked back over at her when she gasped suddenly, a shudder running through her body. He waited, thinking the reaction from a nightmare and that she would wake, but her eyes didn't open. Her face slowly relaxed and she shivered again.

She had to be cold... the wind was starting to have a frosty bite to it. He stood and walked softly around the large bonfire to her side. Kneeling carefully, he pulled the blanket gently back up over her shoulder, his fingertips brushing against her face. Unable to resist, he ran the backs of his fingers lightly over her cheek, delighting in how soft her skin was.

He snatched his hand back when she took a deep breath and shifted suddenly to lift her face toward him, watching as she sighed softly and snuggled back down into the pillow. He sat motionless for several moments before releasing the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Thank the Maker she hadn't woken up. That would have been awkward, to say the very least. Deciding not to tempt the fates further, he stood to move back to his post on the other side of the fire.

He never saw the slow smile that crept across Myranda's lips.

 

 

Alistair woke immediately at the soft sound of his cabin door being opened.

He had to give them credit: they were stealthy, and he wasn't sure why or how the sound had woken him. He wasn't even sure he'd heard it in the first place until he heard the latch click again softly as the door closed.

"Alistair..."

The soft feminine voice almost purred his name, speaking softly as if trying to determine if he was asleep. Well, if he hadn't been awake before, he certainly was _now_. He hadn't thought that the mere sound of his name could make his blood run hot. Of course... no one had ever said it quite like that, either. He sat up and was stunned by the sight that met his eyes.

She wore only a sleeveless tunic, the hem hanging to just above the middle of her thighs, giving him a generous view of her long, shapely legs, while the neckline scooped deeply to reveal the upper swell of her breasts. Her hair had been loosed and hung about her to her hips in glorious golden waves that seemed to shine with a light all its own. Her full lips were parted slightly to allow for her soft, panting breath. Her bright emerald eyes sparkled with an emotion he didn't dare name, though he knew instinctually what it was.

"Myranda," he breathed.

A small smile crossed her lips: beautiful, sensual, and mysterious.

She said nothing as she crossed the room to him, her bare feet making no sound on the floor. She walked to the foot of the bed before climbing onto it, watching him with lustful intensity.

He watched as she crawled toward him, his breathing starting to come in soft pants. He reached for her when she was close enough, leaning forward and kissing her softly and deeply. She returned the kiss instantly, sitting in his lap and pressing against him, and he felt himself gladly becoming lost in the sensation. The feel and the smell of her body were intoxicating and incredible.

She pulled away from him a few moments later, the mysteriously erotic smile still on her lips. She reached for the hem of her tunic before...

 

Alistair started awake, blinking in the soft dawn light. It had been a dream... just another dream.

Damn it.

This almost physical need for her was becoming more and more frustrating and frightening. How long would she continue to haunt his dreams? He'd swear it was a desire demon in the Fade tormenting him, but a demon wouldn't allow him to wake up and escape. But it might as well be a demon, the way the dream tortured him by ending too soon. How many times did he have to _have_ the dream before he actually got to finish it?

Not that he should be having that dream in the first place. Facing Myranda afterwards was incredibly embarrassing. It was generally all he could do to keep his imagination in check. She never asked or seemed to notice, but packing the dream away and keeping it locked up when he looked at her was becoming more and more difficult.

She was gone from her post on the other side of the fire. At least the Maker still granted small miracles... he did not want to try to explain why he had woken so suddenly. Of course, he could just blame it on the nightmares. He'd managed to block them by now, but it was nice to have the excuse. He started to lift his hand to his eyes before he noticed the blanket that had been draped over him. He lifted the fabric to his nose and breathed in the scent— _her_ scent—that clung gently to it. Well, that was where that part of the dream had come from. He shook his head. No, no, no! No more thinking about that! It would only cause problems!

He stood and stretched, breathing the cool, crisp dawn air to clear his head and pack the fantasy away where it belonged. It wasn't going to happen... there was no use dreaming about it. She only cared for him as a friend and a brother. She'd never see him as anything more than that.

He looked around and finally spotted Myranda standing at the tip of the bow, staring at the village that had appeared in the mist. The dawn light caught in her blonde hair and made it sparkle like gold. She stood with her arms wrapped gently around her middle to ward off the cool bite to the air... or perhaps bracing herself for what was to come.

She must have felt his eyes on her, because she turned then, looking back at him and smiling a little before returning to her contemplation. He walked over to stand next to her, wrapping the blanket around her shoulders and watching as the sunlight kissed the rooftops of the houses and the tops of the castle turrets and danced in the waters of the lake around them.

"It's going to be a beautiful day," she murmured.

"Yeah," he said softly, looking at her. "Beautiful."

Her green eyes lifted to his and she smiled before looking back toward the village. She reached for his hand and found his fingers immediately interlaced with hers. She sighed softly in contentment, allowing herself to lean her head against his shoulder. She felt so happy and at peace. It was intoxicatingly wonderful and she knew she could very easily grow accustomed to it.

She had struggled in the pre-dawn hours with the meaning of the strange mix of feelings and reactions that had started to occur inside her whenever he looked at her. She was fond of him... had always been fond of him. And she obviously found him attractive: the erotic dream she'd had earlier that night—and all the others she'd had since that first one after leaving Lothering—certainly confirmed that.

But did she love him? She hadn't been sure she was capable of it anymore. She had loved Rory, and possibly still loved him. But what good did it do her to love him when he was gone? She missed him—would always miss him—but he wouldn't have wanted her to be unhappy. Perhaps it was time she finally moved on, now, after his death. As she had sat considering it, a snippet of a conversation had come back to her during the early morning hours:

_"I think she's the most beautiful woman in Ferelden."_

_"Don't let her hear you say that. She might actually start to fall in love with you."_

_"Would that be so terrible?"_

The simple question had haunted her as she had watched him sleep. Would it be so terrible to let herself fall in love with him? He genuinely cared for her, and she enjoyed being around him. What was holding her back? Obviously she was afraid. Everyone she had ever loved had been taken from her, and she thought that if she kept herself from loving him, she wouldn't be hurt if he was lost to her. But she couldn't live her life with her heart encased in ice. She had started to, before the battle of Ostagar, but something in the way Alistair had looked at her had warmed her in a way she hadn't thought possible. He had touched something inside her... kindled something that she had thought had ceased to be. He had given her a reason to smile—to laugh, and she owed him for that. Whenever she was around him she felt... happy. Happier than she'd felt in a long time. Would it be so wrong to accept what was happening to her? She had finally decided just before dawn. She was tired of being afraid of what she was feeling. They were in incredible danger, but that was all the more reason not to deny herself. She would give herself over completely to this wonderful and beautiful love, regardless of what it meant, and she would fight to hold on to it. She would finally admit it to herself: she was in love with him.

And in that moment she had almost felt herself fall, felt the familiar ache in her chest diminish to an expanding warmth that flowed through every fiber of her being. Alistair was her Brother Grey Warden, her dearest friend, and she loved him with all of her heart.

"Come on," she murmured, releasing his hand reluctantly and turning back toward the stern of the ship. "We have a child to save."

"Myranda?"

She stopped and looked back at him. "Yes?"

"I... I just wanted to say..."

"Yes...?"

"I... thank you. For working so hard to help Arl Eamon's family." He could have sworn that a look of disappointment crossed her face for just a moment.

"Don't thank me yet," she said. "We still have to save the boy... which won't be easy." She let herself smile then. "But the first enchanter seems to believe we have a chance, and I trust his judgment."

 

Ser Perth trotted up to the dock as they disembarked. "Thank the Maker you've returned," he said.

Myranda's heart started to pound in her chest. "What's happened?" she demanded.

"Nothing, Andraste be blessed. Connor's barricaded himself in the family quarters."

"We should still move quickly," Alistair said.

"I agree," Myranda said. "The sooner we get started, the sooner we can save him. Lead the way, Ser Perth."

They hurried up to the castle, where they found Teagan pacing at the top of the stone steps. He looked up as they approached and his face lit up when he saw Myranda. "You return!" he said.

"We got here as quickly as we could," Myranda said, climbing the steps two at a time up to him. "How are things?"

"The same... which I suppose we should count as a blessing."

"I'm sorry we couldn't return sooner..."

"We ran into some trouble at the tower," Alistair finished, joining them at the top of the steps.

Teagan's brow furrowed. "Trouble?"

"Yes, but it's over now," Myranda said, threading her hand into the crook of Alistair's elbow. "It's nothing we couldn't take care of."

The bann looked between the two Grey Wardens before starting to usher them inside. "Come, there's no time to lose."

Soon the entire company was gathered in the main hall of the castle. Isolde stood in a corner near the fireplace with Teagan, with Myranda and Alistair and their companions standing nearby. The mages stood near the middle of the room, ringed by templars. Irving turned to Myranda then.

"I believe we're about ready," he told her. "Only one mage must enter the Fade. We haven't sufficient lyrium at present to send more than one."

Myranda looked at Wynne. "Wynne? Would you...?"

"Of course, dear."

"Be careful."

The older woman smiled a little. "I won't let any harm come to the boy if it can be helped."

She nodded and stepped back as the mage stepped into the middle of the circle of her fellows, straightening her shoulders before holding her hand out over the prepared bowl of lyrium.

Minutes ticked by like hours, no one daring to move too much, though Alistair shifted uncomfortably. There was no way to know what was happening in the Fade, though the air in the room was stuffy with the tension. The more time passed, the closer the air became. It reminded him too much of the Harrowing he had witnessed, and it made him sick to his stomach. Just when he thought he couldn't take the strain any longer, he felt a hand slide into his and hold it tightly. He looked over to find Myranda biting on her thumbnail, looking as anxious as he felt. Her obvious worry steadied him and he wrapped his fingers around hers, causing her to look up and smile a little. He returned the slight smile before leaning toward her. "I'm glad we decided to take this route," he murmured into her ear. "This is really the best option."

Myranda closed her eyes, willing herself not to shudder. "I agree," she replied softly, trying not to make her voice sound as breathless as it wanted to be. "I couldn't bear to think of the alternative."

"Thank you, Myranda."

Oh, Maker... did he honestly have no idea what he was doing to her? The three words being whispered into her ear sparked all sorts of images she honestly didn't need at that moment and were _completely_ inappropriate for the tension of the situation.

There was a sudden scream of terror and rage from above them, causing Myranda to start with surprise and Alistair's hand to tighten around hers. Four of the templars quickly climbed the stairs toward the yell. Isolde shrieked in dismay and started to race after them only to have her arm caught by Teagan, who pulled her back against him and hugged her tightly as she howled in anguish. The hysterical cries rose in pitch and volume as the templars returned carrying the unconscious ten-year-old.

"Connor!" she screamed. "No! Don't take my boy!"

"Isolde," Teagan said, straining to hold her back.

"No! They're going to take him away! Stop them!"

The bann did something then that shocked Myranda: he lifted his hand and struck the woman. Nothing fancy, just a simple back-handed slap that was only hard enough to stop her hysterics and get her attention.

"This is how things should be," he said, gripping her shoulders firmly. "Is it not better that he be at the tower, learning how to control his powers and safe under the watchful eyes of experienced mages?" He didn't give the alternative, though it rang loudly in the room.

Isolde looked at him for a few moments before she collapsed in a dead faint.

 

 

Myranda wandered through the castle. It was over. With the demon destroyed and the boy recovered, perhaps now Eamon would wake. They needed his help desperately.

But at least the horror was over, and they'd not had to sacrifice Isolde or the boy in the process. It had tasted too much like murder, and the thought of killing a child had been nauseating. And the thought of a child losing his mother... she shook her head. But they had avoided the unthinkable. It hadn't been easy, but they had done it.

She wandered into a room lined with bookcases, with a large desk occupying the middle of the floor—obviously the arl's study. She found her steps wandering over to the desk, glancing at the papers littering it as she shifted through them. They were mostly without interest—just the customary paperwork necessary to run a castle and village—though one or two mentioned the Urn of Sacred Ashes. She picked one of these up to examine it more closely when a glint of silver caught her eye. She placed the paper aside and picked up the silver object. She looked at it for a moment before her eyes widened with recognition. This... this was... no, it _couldn't_ be! But...

"My lady?"

Myranda started at the voice and turned, her hand closing around her find. "Teagan."

"My apologies. I didn't mean to startle you."

"Quite all right," she said. "You have news?"

He nodded. "It is over," he said simply. "Connor is his old self. He does not seem to remember anything, which is a blessing."

"It is."

"The templars and the Circle mages are helping him prepare for the journey back to the tower to begin his training." He shook his head. "It's so odd to think of the boy as a mage, of all things."

"It's as you told Isolde, however: better that he's going to the tower, where they'll be able to teach him how to properly use and control his powers than leaving him in the hands of an incompetent apostate." She looked at him. "Did you tell the templars about him?"

"No. I thought it best that Eamon choose his fate when he awakens. My brother has much to mourn and rebuild, should he recover." He allowed himself to smile a little then. "But at least he can be thankful that both his son and wife are safe."

Myranda let herself return his smile. It was truly amazing how such a little thing so completely transformed him.

"But our task is not done yet," Teagan went on, his face becoming serious again. "Whatever the demon did to my brother, it seems to have spared his life... but he remains comatose. We cannot wake him. Isolde remains convinced that the Urn of Sacred Ashes is the only way to save him."

"Isn't there some other way to heal him?" Myranda asked. "What about magic?"

"It has been tried and we will continue trying," Teagan said. "Perhaps the demon's absence will make a difference. However, the relic is another option."

"Perhaps our only option?"

"Indeed."

Myranda sighed heavily. "Our only hope is something that has been lost for generations... and may only be a bedtime story. That doesn't inspire much confidence."

"Isolde mentioned that Eamon had funded the research of a scholar in Denerim—a Brother Genitivi. He has been studying the inscriptions on Andraste's Birth Rock. When Eamon fell ill, she sent the knights to speak to Genitivi, with hopes that he had finally discovered the location of the Urn of Sacred Ashes itself."

"And most of them have yet to return."

It was Teagan's turn to sigh. "It does look rather bleak," he admitted. "I hate to ask this of you, with everything else you have done and have yet to do, but will you try, my lady?"

"What will you be doing in the meantime?"

"I must organize Eamon's knights as they return, draft new soldiers, and prepare the army to fight. I shall hand Redcliffe back to Eamon when he awakens, and in a state where it can be of some use in the coming war." He shrugged slightly. "Truly, what other choice do I have?"

Myranda nodded. "I will see if I can find this relic," she said.

"No one else can," Teagan told her. "Even if I wished to do it myself, I cannot abandon Redcliffe to its own devices." He paused. "Perhaps you could seek out the brother's home in Denerim and see if any clues remain on his whereabouts. It is the only place to begin the search, I think."

She looked at her hand, clasped around the small treasure. "I have other business in Denerim, so I can certainly stop by the brother's home."

"What have you there?"

Myranda opened her hand and held it out for him to see. "I found this on the desk and thought to return it to its rightful owner."

"You know who it belongs to, then?"

"I do." She couldn't help the small smile that crossed her lips as she looked at the object. "Its existence was mentioned to me, but I was told it had been broken. I'm glad to see it repaired and would like to return it now."

Teagan smiled a little. "I doubt that Eamon would mind. As long as it's returned, that's all that is important."

Myranda lifted her green eyes, tucking the precious object into her belt pouch. "Thank you, Teagan."

"It is I who should be thanking you, my lady. You stand to save all of us, and we shall all be eternally grateful."

"Don't thank me yet," she replied, holding up her hand. "Wait until the arl recovers, at least."

He stared at her for a few moments before bowing his head. "I must go to the hall and begin rebuilding," he said. "I wish you luck, and may the Maker go with you."

"And with you."

Teagan smiled a little and stepped forward to take her hand and bow over it, brushing his lips against her fingers. When he straightened, the wistfulness had returned, lingering in his expressive blue eyes.

Myranda made herself smile a little, wrapping her fingers lightly around his. "You're a good man, Teagan," she said. "You're loyal to your brother and to your people. If anyone can keep Redcliffe from falling into chaos, you can. I have faith in you." She let her smile soften. "And your wife, when you find her, will be a very lucky woman."

"If she's like you, my lady, I shall be the lucky one."

Myranda laughed a little, pulling her hand gently from his. "Do yourself a favor and don't wish for one like me. She'll be too headstrong... too thirsty for adventure." She shook her head. "No. Find a woman like Isolde, she'll suit you much better."

Teagan smiled at her, and Myranda saw the quick glimmer of disbelief in the deepest depths of his eyes. "May I ask you something, my lady?"

"Teagan, for the last time, please call me Myranda."

"Very well. Myranda, then."

"And you may ask me anything you wish," she said, returning to his original question. She grinned teasingly at him. "I cannot, however, promise that I'll answer you."

He smiled a little before he took a deep breath. He would ask, though he already knew her answer. "If circumstances were better," he murmured, "if the country were not torn apart by civil war..."

"I don't know that we would have had a future," she said gently. "I'm a Grey Warden. And even had I not been recruited and had... things not happened the way they have, I don't think we could ever have been matched." She allowed herself to grace him with a teasing smile as a look of genuine disappointment and resignation crossed his face. "Which is not to say," she whispered, "that I wouldn't have petitioned my father to consider the match... or proven to you just how 'captivating' I can be."

"You have no reason to prove that to me," he murmured.

"I also would have let you kiss me that day in the chantry... and do everything else I saw you wanted to do." Her grin widened as he looked surprised. "And I would have enjoyed it, too."

The boyish grin returned to Teagan's lips. "Now it is you who flatters me, my lady."

"The truth is not flattery, ser," she said. She leaned over and kissed him softly on the cheek then. "Keep faith," she murmured. "If the Urn truly exists, I'll find it."

Teagan watched as she walked out of the room before sighing softly to himself. She had changed, even in the short time she had been away. She seemed... happier than she had before. It was good to see, though he wished he could have been the one to bring her that happiness. He sighed again, more heavily, before making his way toward the Great Hall. Alistair was very lucky to have her.

 

Myranda strode toward the castle doors. She needed to gather her party and they needed to leave—the sooner they got back on the road, the better.

"Myranda?"

She looked up and smiled. "Alistair."

"So?" he asked nervously. "How's the arl?"

Her face fell. "He's still unconscious," she said. "It seems like our only option has become finding something that may not even exist."

"The Urn of Sacred Ashes."

"Yes."

Alistair sighed heavily. "So what are we going to do?"

"I thought we'd try to find the Dalish elves on our way to Denerim."

"Denerim?"

She nodded. "Apparently the arl was funding the research of a Brother Genitivi, who was trying to locate the Urn. His home is in Denerim. Teagan and I agreed that it would be the most logical place to start." She looked over at him. "Besides," she went on, "one of my companions has a long lost sister living there that he'd like to meet." She smiled when he looked at her in surprise. "You didn't think I'd forgotten about that, did you?"

"Well, I... there's been a lot that's happened since I mentioned it, and I..."

"...thought I wasn't listening, since you asked about it off-handedly when we were in the middle of fighting undead monsters in the cellars of the castle." She shook her head a little. "A suitable distraction, but it was obviously important to you, so I made sure that I gave you a little more of my attention."

"Were you paying attention to me before that?"

"I always pay attention to you." She smiled awkwardly and laughed a little. "I mean, you are my friend after all. I do try to pay attention to you." She cleared her throat. "Come on. The sooner we leave, the sooner we get to the Brecilian Forest."


	18. Kiss from a Rose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Myranda receives a gift, and gives one of her own. Realizations are reached and questions are answered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter DOES contain a sex scene. I've marked it off between *~*~*~*~* lines if you want to skip it.

**Chapter 18: Kiss from a Rose**

_"Remember tonight… for it is the beginning of always." ~Dante Alighieri_

 

The travelers stopped next to one of the small lakes near the Imperial Highway, putting nearly a half a day's travel between them and Redcliffe before halting for the night. Thunder rolled softly from somewhere far away, though it didn't interrupt the tranquility of the small camp. Alistair and Myranda had just finished a precautionary scouting mission around the site, but aside from a few squirrels that had chattered at Myranda as she climbed their tree for a better lookout, they had seen—and sensed—nothing.

Now, as they headed back into camp, anxiety gnawed at Alistair. He needed to tell her how he felt. He would try tonight... before anything else happened to them. But there was something else he wanted to say first. "Myranda?"

The blonde woman turned to face her fellow Grey Warden. "Yes?"

"Now that we're back at the camp, I want to talk about what happened. At Redcliffe."

She smiled. "I think it turned out quite well. Don't you?"

Alistair smiled back at her. "I just wanted to thank you," he said. "Again. You went out of your way to save the arl's family and you did it, even though it would have been easier not to. There's been so much death and destruction, it..." he looked away then. "Well, it makes me feel good that at least we were able to save something, no matter how small." He looked back at her. "I owed the arl that much."

Her smile turned more affectionate then. "You're welcome."

"Good," he said lightly. "Now that the warm, fuzzy part of the day is over with, we can get back to the ritual dismemberments!" He paused thoughtfully for a moment. "Oh, wait... it's not Tuesday, is it?"

Myranda laughed a little. "No. Not today." She smiled. "I was happy to help Arl Eamon's family. I wanted to help. I know what it's like to lose one," she added softly, her smile fading, "and I don't wish it on anyone." She lowered her eyes and sighed softly. "I... suppose I should apologize for not controlling myself when we first reached the hall."

"What was happening was terrible," Alistair said, trying to console her, but she just shook her head.

"It wasn't just that. Seeing what had happened to Teagan was horrifying, yes, but Connor..." she paused, struggling to keep her voice calm. "He reminded me of... of what my nephew Oren might have looked like at that age, if he was... had he not been..." She stopped, allowing herself to be pulled into a gentle embrace. She leaned her head against his shoulder as she wrapped her arms around him, breathing his soft, masculine scent and drawing comfort from his very presence.

"I'm sorry," Alistair murmured into her hair.

They stood together for several long, quiet moments before Myranda took a deep breath and nodded. As much as she would have loved to stay in his arms until the end of time, she needed to let him know that she was all right. "Well, at least I managed to save one of our families." She looked back up at him and the ground fell out from under her feet. That look... no one had ever looked at her that way, with so much love and compassion. It was a look into the depths of his soul, and she suddenly wanted to bask in the warmth she saw there for the rest of eternity. The Blight didn't matter. Loghain and Howe ceased to exist. The only thing in the entire world that was important was him. And surely it would be all right if she leaned up and...

A sudden loud bark made them nearly leap apart.

"What is it, Baby?" Myranda asked the dog, trying to calm her racing heart.

The large mabari tilted his head and whined at her.

"I think he may be hungry," Alistair offered.

"Yes. I think I have a bone I can give him." She shot Alistair a grin then. "So... ritual dismemberments next week?"

He blinked before remembering his earlier comment and grinning back at her. "Let me know if you have any suggestions for volunteers."

Myranda laughed and looked back at the dog. "Come on, Baby," she said, starting toward her tent.

Alistair watched her go for a moment before the sense of his opportunity fading suddenly drove him to speak. He had to tell her... now, or never. Three little words, that was all he had to say. How hard could it be? "Myranda," he called.

She stopped immediately and turned to look back at him. "Yes?" she whispered.

"I..." The sight of her crystalline green eyes shining brightly in the firelight, watching him with intense expectancy, made him dizzy and caused his nerve to fail him. "You do have a family, you know," he said, despising the words as soon as they left his lips.

A puzzled look crossed her face.

"The Grey Wardens... well, we're like a family, you know." He watched as the bafflement left her face and the corners of her mouth lifted into a warm, affectionate smile that made his head swim and his heart ache in the most wonderful ways possible.

She walked back over to him before she impulsively leaned up and kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you, Alistair," she said before turning and walking to her tent, the mabari close on her heels.

 

 

Dinner was an interesting affair, to say the least. The incredibly nervous tension that had started to coil between Myranda and Alistair when they left the Circle tower now permeated the very air. More than once Leliana glanced between the two—notably sitting on opposite sides of the fire from one another—as if she anticipated one of them doing something outrageous. Alistair thought she seemed to be waiting for him to openly profess his undying love to the blonde. To Myranda, the look said that the bard fully expected her to leap across the fire and tackle the other Grey Warden before making mad love to him right there in front of everyone. Both found the respective ideas embarrassing and ridiculous and shot only fleeting glances at each other. Wynne simply smirked. Sten made no indication that he noticed anything out of the ordinary. Morrigan, at her separated camp site, ignored them all.

After dinner, Myranda went with Leliana to the lake to help clean the dishes. The bard chattered away the entire time, and while she nodded and made polite noises at regular intervals, in truth Myranda didn't hear a word she said. Her mind was elsewhere... though she was determined to keep it out of a few of the places to which it wanted to wander. She washed the same cup four times before Leliana splashed her playfully—twice—and commented on it when she surfaced from her haze to wonder how she'd gotten so wet. It was only then that, embarrassed, she ruthlessly reined in her imaginings and forced herself to concentrate on what she was doing.

When they returned to camp some time later, Myranda was somewhat surprised to find Alistair waiting for her by her tent, fidgeting nervously with something. Puzzled, she absently handed her small stack of dishes to Leliana and walked over to him, wringing out her wet shirt where the bard had splashed her. "Alistair?"

Alistair turned and looked at her. "Here, look at this," he said. "Do you know what this is?"

She looked at the object in his hand—a single, beautiful red rose—and smirked. "Your new weapon of choice?" she offered, looking back up at him.

"Yes, that's right!" he said with exaggerated and nervous enthusiasm. "Watch as I thrash our enemies with the mighty power of _floral arrangements_! Feel my thorns, darkspawn!" he said, holding the flower as he would a sword. "I will overpower you with my rosy scent!" He took a deep breath and sighed as she laughed, trying to steady his nerves. "Or, you know," he said when she'd calmed down, "it could just be a _rose_. I know that's... pretty dull in comparison."

"I don't know." Myranda smiled at him. "Sentiment can be a pretty potent weapon."

"Is it _that_ easy to see right through me?"

She nodded. "I'm afraid so."

He sighed a little. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised." He lowered his eyes to the crimson rose. "I picked it in Lothering," he explained. "I remember thinking, 'How could something so beautiful exist in a place with so much despair and ugliness?' I probably should have left it alone, but I couldn't. The darkspawn would come and their taint would just destroy it. So I've had it ever since."

"That's a nice sentiment," she said, admiring the beautiful bloom.

Alistair looked at her nervously. "I thought that I might... give it to you, actually," he said, causing her to look up at him.

"Really?"

He nodded. "In a lot of ways, I... I think the same thing when I look at you."

Myranda's green eyes widened slightly in surprise before she smiled warmly. "Thank you, Alistair," she said, taking the flower from him when he held it out to her. "That's a lovely thought."

"I'm glad you like it." Actually, he was pleased beyond expression, but that wasn't the point. He watched as she lifted the flower to her nose to smell its soft fragrance. "I was just thinking..." he went on tentatively, "here I am doing all this complaining, and you haven't exactly been having a good time of it yourself."

Myranda looked up at him again, her brow furrowed in slight confusion. "You haven't been complaining."

"But you... you've had none of the good experiences of being a Grey Warden since your Joining, not a word of thanks or congratulations. It's all been death and fighting and tragedy." He watched as her beautiful green eyes lowered to the ground. "I thought maybe I could say something," he said. "Tell you what a rare and wonderful thing you are to find amidst all this... darkness."

She felt herself blush at his words, feeling giddy and ridiculous all at once. "I feel the same way about you," she murmured, looking up at him.

"I'm glad." Alistair felt himself starting to blush and cleared his throat uncomfortably. The way she was looking at him, gazing up through her eyelashes, was making it difficult to think clearly. "Now, if we could... move right on past this... awkward... embarrassing stage and get right to the steamy bits, I'd appreciate it."

Myranda smiled, relieved that he had lightened the mood and broken some of the highly electric tension that was building between them. He was joking—the way he'd rushed through the suggestion made that obvious—but part of her wondered if, on some level, he actually meant that. "Sounds good," she said teasingly. "Off with the armor, then!"

Alistair laughed nervously. "Bluff called!" he said before snapping his fingers. "Damn! She saw right through me!"

Her grin widened. "And why must it be a bluff?" she asked coyly, continuing to tease him gently.

The nervousness seemed to fade instantly and an intriguing spark lit his eyes as he grinned back at her. "Well, it... doesn't _have_ to be a bluff."

Myranda lifted an interested eyebrow. "Oh?" Perhaps he hadn't been joking after all.

"Well, I suppose we _are_ in the camp. The tent's... right over there." He glanced at her tent before looking back at her again. "This is true."

She leaned toward him slightly. "No time like the present, then," she murmured suggestively.

Alistair's eyes widened in surprise and he flushed crimson as he leaned away a little. "Oh, I... that is..." he stammered, feeling all of his nervousness returning tenfold.

Myranda giggled as she stood up straight again, cutting off her game in the face of his apprehension. "You're so cute when you're bashful," she said.

He laughed nervously again. "I'll be... I'll be standing over here," he said, taking a few steps backwards and gesturing in a vague direction over his shoulder. "Until the blushing stops. Just to be... safe!" He smiled uneasily and shrugged. "You know how it is."

Myranda watched him walk away for a moment before looking back at the rose in her hand. Beauty amidst ugliness... that's what he'd said. Funny how roses kept turning up in their adventure. Perhaps this was the rose of the Maker that Leliana had seen? She laughed softly to herself and shook her head a little. Best not to pursue _that_ any further. She was reading too much into it. It was a gift: an incredibly sweet and precious gift. A thing of beauty when such things were being lost to the Blight. Hope within the despair.

_"In a lot of ways, I... I think the same thing when I look at you."_

She blinked. Had he meant that the way she _thought_ he meant it? If he did... but surely not. Still... even if he didn't love her the way she did him, he could still treasure her as a friend. If only she had something special she could give him... something that meant as much.... Suddenly remembering the object she'd picked up at the castle, she smiled and ducked into her tent. She would also have to make sure she put Alistair's rose in a special place.

 

 

Alistair sighed, leaning against a tree as he stared out over the waters of the small lake. He had been doing a lot of sighing recently, he noted. And the sighs usually stemmed from thoughts of Myranda. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the tree trunk. Just being near her made him happy, and the sight of her smile or the sound of her laugh made his heartbeat trip and stumble over itself. It was the happiest he'd ever felt, he was sure of that, but he was happy in the most miserable way possible.

He sighed again, looking up into the inky sky. Why... why couldn't he keep it together when she was around? Everything he did seemed to be wrong. She was so perfect—beautiful and strong—she invariably made him feel like a fool. She handled herself with poise and grace in any situation... while he started getting flustered if she simply said his name. And anything he said when captured by her emerald eyes sounded completely stupid. There were times he could hardly _breathe_ when she was around, much less think. He felt like such an idiot around her, and he couldn't imagine why. He loved her... he was almost certain he loved her. But surely love— _true_ love—didn't make you feel and act like the biggest fool in the world. Or did it? The whole thing was utterly maddening. And why was it so blasted hard to tell her? What was so difficult about "You're amazing and beautiful and I love you"?

Although... there was the distinct possibility she didn't feel the same way... or anything _close_ to what he was feeling. She liked him—she had said so—and they had an easy camaraderie, but there was a big difference between love and friendly affection. He lifted his hand to his cheek where she had kissed him earlier. Sure, she had flirted with him, and she certainly teased him enough, but did she actually want to follow through on any of her risqué suggestions? Did they mean anything to her? Maybe she was teasing him just to make him blush. As far as he could tell, Myranda never felt as nervous and ridiculous as he was feeling. And, if she did, she certainly didn't show it.

He sighed heavily and closed his eyes again, his heart aching in his chest. Who did he think he was fooling? Myranda was a well-born and incredibly beautiful woman who could have any man she desired. What made him think that she would ever want _him_?

"So this is where you're hiding."

He opened his eyes and turned, and the sight that met his eyes took his breath away. Myranda was standing a few feet away, looking at him with a slight smile on her face, cradling something in her hand. She had changed into the gown she had worn before they had arrived at Redcliffe nearly three weeks before, and somehow looked more radiant now than she had then. A cloud moved from in front of the moon in that moment, and the soft blue-white light shining down on her made her seem like a gift from the Maker Himself.

"Trying to sneak away to fight the archdemon alone and gain all the glory for yourself?" she teased.

He smiled a little at her, wishing he could quiet the pounding of his heart in his ears. "Yet another of my nefarious schemes has come to light!"

She laughed softly. "Do you mind if I intrude on your privacy for a moment?"

"No... no, not at all."

The smile left her lips. "Are you sure? I could go..."

"No, no, no!" he interrupted. He smiled a little. "I don't mind. Please."

She looked uncertain, but walked toward him, and he was somewhat surprised to see she was barefoot. "Are you all right?" she asked. "You seem... nervous... about something."

"I'm fine. I just feel like I have this... pit in my stomach."

She smirked, a definite twinkle lighting her green eyes. "That sounds like nerves to me."

He laughed uneasily. "Maybe it is at that."

A smile crossed Myranda's lips. "I have something for you," she said. She stepped forward and took his hand to drop a small, round pendant on a long silver chain into it. The pendant itself looked as if it had been broken and very carefully repaired. It was, despite being riddled with cracks, a beautiful thing, delicately worked and bearing the design of a great flame, the holy symbol of the prophet Andraste.

Alistair looked at it for a few moments before the knowledge of what it was suddenly struck him. "This... this is my mother's amulet! It has to be! But... why isn't it broken?" He looked up at her then. "Where did you find it?"

"I found it in Redcliffe castle, in the study."

"Oh. The arl's study?" He watched in disbelief as she nodded before looking back at the amulet. "Then he must have... found the amulet after I threw it at the wall. And he repaired it and kept it?" He shook his head. "I don't understand..." he breathed, "why would he do that?"

"Perhaps you mean more to him than you think," Myranda said.

He glanced up at her. "I... guess you could be right," he said, lowering his eyes again. "We never really talked that much, and then the way I left..." He looked back up at her and smiled. "Thank you. I mean it. I... thought I'd lost this to my own stupidity."

Myranda smiled. It was good to see him so happy. His joy and sincerity were so pure they warmed her heart, and she was sure she would melt in the light of his smile. Her knees had already started. "It was on the arl's desk," she told him. "When I saw it, I just couldn't leave it there. I think he meant to give it to you... I hope he doesn't mind that I've done it for him."

"Maybe he tried before. Maybe... maybe all those times he came to see me at the monastery..."

"There's no way to know that," she said, seeing him starting to fall into a self-loathing despair. "What's important is that you have it now."

He looked back at the amulet, almost unable to take his eyes from it. "I'll need to talk to him about this. If he recovers from his... _when_ he recovers, that is. I wish I'd had this a long time ago." A thought occurred to him then and he looked back at her. "Did you remember me mentioning it?" He was slightly surprised when she nodded. "Wow," he breathed. "I'm more used to people not really listening when I go on about things."

Myranda gave him a strange look then. "Of _course_ I remembered," she said, taking the amulet and looping the chain around his neck. She allowed her fingers to trace the chain over his collarbone before sliding her hand down his chest to lay over his heart. "You're special to me," she said, smiling up at him.

He smiled and took her hands. "Is this the part where the music starts and we begin dancing?" he asked, laughing. "Because I'm game! Where's the minstrels?"

She giggled at his enthusiasm. "Who said you need music to dance?"

"Hm. You know, you're right!"

Myranda laughed. She spun away from him as he lifted his arm before allowing herself to be pulled back toward him. His hands moved to her waist as hers moved to his shoulders and she jumped up in the last moment, a pure joy she never thought she'd ever feel again bubbling up inside her as he spun her around. She looked at him as he slowly placed her back on her feet and her amusement instantly died, replaced by a sudden keen awareness of him and of her own incredible desire. Everything around them started to vanish. The highly charged energy that had grown and intensified between them crashed down like a wave, pulling at Myranda, attempting to sweep her away with it. She lowered her eyes briefly, licking her top lip before catching the bottom one between her teeth. His eyes flicked down to her mouth before lifting again and another shock of electricity shot through Myranda's body. She found herself starting to lean up toward him to kiss him when a sudden surge of panic coursed through her veins. She stepped away from him more quickly than she intended, looking away and rubbing the back of her neck. "I'm sorry," she said, smiling sheepishly at him. "I guess it's been a while since I... danced with anyone."

A small, sad smile crossed his lips. "I understand."

She looked away then, casting about for a change of subject before one or the other of them could retreat. "May I tell you something?"

"Of course."

"I..." Myranda bit her lip nervously. "I was really frightened while I was in the Fade. When we were at the tower."

Alistair looked at her in surprise. "Frightened? Of what?"

"Of... of not being able to find you," she admitted. "There were five... Niall called them 'islands' around the Sloth demon's inner sanctum, and when I asked, he said that you and the others might be on one of those islands." She lowered her eyes. "It was horrible—a never-ending progression of nightmares filled with abominations and demons. And a nauseating string of shape shifting that still makes me dizzy to think about."

He stared at her in slight concern. It was the first time she'd mentioned what she'd experienced inside the Fade, and the picture she was painting was disturbing to say the very least. And she'd had to face it alone.

"I had to find and wake the dreamers on each island, but as I searched for them, I... searched for you, too." She looked up at him before looking away quickly. "I... I was almost frantic by the time I found your dream," she murmured.

"Well you did find me," Alistair said softly. "And you did it. You defeated the demon."

The blonde woman blushed. "Well, I didn't do it alone." She cleared her throat. "Anyway, that's really all I wanted to say about it."

"Don't worry," he said teasingly. "I won't tell anyone your little secret."

She laughed a little. "Oh, yes. Please don't tell anyone I was actually frightened. I may never hear the end of it."

"You are supposed to be our fearless leader, after all."

"This is true. I have a reputation to uphold." Her smile faded then. "A reputation I'm not entirely sure I deserve." She took a few steps away, wrapping her arms around herself as she looked out over the moonlit lake. "Sometimes... sometimes I wish I could just run away," she said after a few quiet moments. "I know I don't show it—I know my duty and that comes first—but I feel it. Sometimes I just want to run away from everything. To hide. It feels like it's too much, sometimes, and I feel like I just can't do it anymore." She looked down at her feet. "I've felt so alone since my family was murdered," she said softly. "I feel like... I felt like no one understood me. That they wouldn't be able to even if they tried. And I've felt like I couldn't truly be close to another person... and that no one could ever be close to my heart."

Alistair frowned and lowered his eyes, fighting the ache in his chest as his heart shattered into a million pieces. It was as he'd feared. What a fool he'd been to think that she would ever care for him.

"Except..."

He looked up when she paused, watching as she turned to look at him with a warm but slightly puzzled look in her bright green eyes.

"Except you," she murmured. "Sometimes I think you're the only one who truly knows me for who and what I am. You understand me... better than anyone. You've saved me from myself, and you help make everything bearable. I couldn't have done any of this if it weren't for you. You... you've helped me feel... alive again." She stared at him for a few moments before she shook her head suddenly and looked away, dropping her hands back to her side in frustration. "Oh, that sounds so _stupid_ ," she said harshly, berating herself.

"It doesn't sound stupid at all," he said soothingly. "I understand."

She smiled slightly as she looked back at him. "You see?"

Alistair smiled a little at her, watching as she lowered her eyes and looked away again. She suddenly seemed... nervous. Did she...? It had sounded like it, but did he dare to think...? Well, there was one way to find out. "So all this time we've spent together... you know," he went on lightly when she looked up at him again, fighting back his own nervousness, "the tragedy, the brushes with death, the constant battles with the whole Blight looming over us..." he paused, daring himself to ask the question on his mind: "will you miss it, once it's over?"

Myranda smirked a little before she sniffled dramatically. "It makes me tear up just thinking about it," she said with false sadness, wiping an imaginary tear from her eye and sniffling again.

Alistair laughed at her act, relaxing. "There'll be no more running for our lives, no more darkspawn..." He looked back toward the camp and groaned slightly. "And no more camping in the middle of nowhere."

"Yes," she agreed, stepping closer and following his gaze. "There is that." They stood silently for a few moments before she spoke again. "But you weren't asking if I'd miss the battles," she said softly. "You were asking if I'd miss you."

He laughed softly. "Yes, I suppose that... is what I'm trying to ask."

She looked back at him as he took her hand. His hand was shaking slightly with his nervousness, but there was a determination in his eyes that she'd rarely seen in him. Her heart started to pound in her chest so loudly that she was sure he could hear it, though if he did, he made no indication of it.

"I know it... might sound strange, considering we haven't known each other for very long... only about a month, I guess... but I've come to... care for you. A great deal. I think maybe it's because we've gone through so much together... I don't know." He shrugged a little, looking at her with a helpless smile on his face. "Or maybe I'm imagining it," he said. "Maybe I'm just fooling myself."

Myranda took a deep breath, fighting to keep her raging emotions and her whirling mind in check. The precious solitude of the place and the hour and the intimate connection between them pressed on her awareness, making everything else in the world start to disappear from her senses. The tension between them was almost like a living thing, real and undeniable. There would be no dismissing the mounting energy this time.

And she didn't want to.

"Am I?" Alistair asked her softly. "Fooling myself? Or do you think you might ever... feel the same way about me?"

She looked at him for a few quiet moments, her eyes wandering over his face. He loved her—he had all but told her that—and she wasn't going to be a coward anymore. "I think I already do," she whispered, lifting her eyes back to his.

Alistair released the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and grinned slightly at her. "So I fooled you, too, did I?" he murmured, pulling her closer and wrapping his arm around her waist. "Good to know." Without a second thought, he leaned forward and caught her lips in a soft kiss.

Myranda immediately returned the gentle kiss, her eyes falling closed as a lightning bolt shot down her spine, causing her toes to curl and her entire nervous system to tingle. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders to keep from falling as the ground fell away from her feet. The sound of rushing water filled her ears, pounding against her head and making her dizzy. The whole world was falling apart around her, and she didn't care. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered except Alistair. The feel, the smell, the taste... oh, Andraste, the _taste_! The taste of his kiss was sweeter than the finest Orlesian wine.

She fell out of the kiss when he pulled away several moments later, a soft sigh escaping her. When she opened her eyes, it was to see him looking at her nervously.

"That... that wasn't too soon, was it?"

Myranda smirked at him. "I don't know," she teased breathlessly. "I need more testing to be sure."

The relief in his eyes quickly faded to mischief as he grinned at her. "Well, I'll... just have to arrange that, then, won't I?"

"I suppose you will. In fact, I insist on it."

His smile became more affectionate then. "Maker's breath, but you're beautiful," he breathed, running the backs of his fingers over her cheek. "I am a lucky man."

Myranda closed her eyes as she leaned into his touch, opening them again when he tilted her chin up slightly. She watched him as he looked at her, the look in his eyes so warm and loving that it nearly broke her heart.

"Myranda..."

"Yes?"

"Myranda, I..."

She watched as he struggled with the three words and smiled. "Say it," she whispered.

He took a deep breath. "I love you," he whispered.

"And I love you," she murmured, lifting her hand to his face and tracing her fingertips lightly along his jawline. She leaned toward him again. "More than anything," she whispered against his lips before kissing him again.

The kiss was deeper than the first, the passion stronger than before. Myranda's mind was reeling from the whirl of emotions and the rushing of her blood through her veins. Why... _why_ hadn't they done this sooner? She fought to maintain some shred of control over herself, though it was incredibly difficult... made more so when Alistair's hand moved around to the back of her neck, pulling her gently into the kiss as he moved his lips slowly over hers. She moaned softly, pressing against him as she wrapped her arms back around his shoulders, running her tongue gently along his lower lip. He opened his mouth and Myranda slid her tongue between his parted lips, slowly exploring and tasting his mouth. She felt more than heard the soft moan that escaped him and her control frayed further, especially when his hand slid from her waist to rest on her hip. She moaned again, louder, and arched her body into him as the passion between them continued to build.

When they broke apart several long moments later, the tension intensified, the charge more powerful than before. They stared at each other, both panting softly and hovering on the edge of another kiss, before Alistair placed his hands on her shoulders and took a small, reluctant step away from her. Another kiss would have him begging to make love to her despite his inexperience, and he was sure it was too soon for that.

"Now," he said, clearing his throat awkwardly, shocked that he could think coherently around the spinning in his brain, "let's get back to... what we were up to before. Lest I forget why we're here."

"Would that be so bad?" Myranda murmured. "To forget why we're here for a while?"

"No... I don't know. I don't think so."

"So how would you like to join me in my tent?"

Alistair blinked in astonishment. "Join you?" he repeated in disbelief. "In your tent?"

Myranda frowned and took a small step back. Too fast... she was trying to move too fast. "If you don't want to..."

"Oh, that's not it," he interrupted quickly. "At all. Not that I want to seem... over-eager...." He sighed and looked away. "I must sound like a fool," he muttered under his breath.

Myranda smiled sympathetically at him.

"You know that I've never done anything like this," he said, looking back at her. "With anyone. I was... quite sheltered, after all."

She nodded. "I know," she whispered.

"I care for you so much," he murmured. "Whenever I think of this, I feel like a bumbling idiot, all hands." He shook his head ruefully and sighed. "I wish I could be better at this...." He lifted his hand to her face again. "I want it to be right."

She held his hand against her cheek, closing her eyes as she leaned into his touch. "I think this is as right as it gets," she said softly before opening her eyes again. "Would you rather we waited?"

He shook his head again. "I don't know," he admitted, pulling his hand away reluctantly. "I'm willing to... give it a shot, if you are."

Myranda smiled a little. "This part is easy... fighting it is the hard part," she said, stepping toward him again and wrapping her arms around him. "Just follow my lead."

"Right." He looked at her for a moment before leaning toward her again. "I'm going to... stop talking now..."

"That's a good start," she whispered, leaning forward to catch his lips in another kiss.

The kiss was slow and deep, their hands wandering a little more freely over each other. Myranda was pleasantly surprised when his tongue dipped into her mouth to explore, moaning encouragingly as she slid her hands up his back. She was drowning, swept into a vast, endless sea and perfectly glad of it. But there was something else... a sudden hunger for more that clawed at her, relentless and undeniable. She arched against him as his fingertips slid slowly down her spine, but the ache only grew stronger. The silken fabric of the gown was suddenly unbearable, and she wanted nothing more than to be rid of the cursed thing so she could feel his hands on her skin. She broke the kiss—and the next when her lips were recaptured as she slowly pulled away—with great reluctance. "Come with me," she whispered breathlessly before taking his hand and leading him back toward the camp.

 

Leliana stood by the fire, holding her hands out to the blaze to try and dismiss the chill in them. What a night to have to stand guard! Not only was it getting cold—in another month it would be bitterly so—but she was sharing the watch with Sten, who was as responsive to her attempts at conversation as a rock.

She noticed movement in the shadows and she shifted her eyes to it only to see Myranda ducking into her tent, with Alistair following hesitantly a few steps behind. She smiled a little to herself, looking back at the fire. At last they were going to consummate their love. She was happy for them... life was so fleeting, they deserved what happiness they could find.

 

*~*~*~*~

 

Myranda released the breath she had been holding since they arrived on the edge of the campsite as she ducked into her tent. She didn't think anyone had noticed them. Not that it mattered... she didn't really care what they thought. She heard Alistair follow her inside a few moments later and turned only to see him watching her anxiously. "What's wrong?"

He smiled a little. "Nerves," he said simply.

The sympathetic smile returned to her lips. "Just relax," she murmured. "Don't think about what you should do or ought to do. Don't think at all. Just... feel. And act."

"But what if..."

She raised a finger to his lips to stop the flow of words. "You won't hurt me," she whispered, reading the fear in his eyes. "I promise." She moved to trace her fingertips along his jawline. "Will you trust me?"

He closed his eyes and nodded. "Yes." He took her hand then and kissed her palm gently. "Yes, I trust you." He opened his eyes and looked at her. "I love you, Myranda."

Myranda smiled, and she didn't realize she was moving until their lips met in a soft, passionate kiss. She broke away long enough to whisper, "I love you," before falling back into another kiss.

She almost felt him relax against her as she kissed him, sliding her hands soothingly up and down his back. Her tongue parted his lips again, tasting and exploring before retreating, inviting his to follow. After a moment's hesitation it did, much to her delight. She moaned her soft encouragement, which helped dispel some of his lingering unease. She barely suppressed her shudder as his fingers slid teasingly down her spine, stopping at the lacing of the gold cincher at her waist as if waiting for approval. She moaned again, arching her body against him. Almost immediately there was a slight tug and the cincher suddenly loosened its hold on her waist, sliding to her hips before falling to the ground. His hand then went immediately to the small hooks at the neck of her gown, undoing them slowly and carefully.

He stopped below her collarbone as the realization of what he was doing dawned on him, breaking the kiss to look at her nervously. Her eyes opened, the deep green pools soft and warm and inviting as she stared at him. She smiled a little.

"Don't think," she whispered. "Act."

"Are you sure?"

"I invited you here, remember?" she murmured teasingly. "This is what I want."

He nodded and continued hesitantly, pausing again before she kissed him softly. He sighed softly, slipping back into the euphoria of it. He started again on the fastenings, but relinquished the task when she reached up to take over, lifting his hand to gently cup her cheek.

Myranda stepped back when she had unhooked most of the fastenings, watching his reaction as she shrugged the gown off her shoulders and let it slide slowly to the ground. His eyes followed the path of the garment down her body before slowly lifting again, taking in every inch of her figure. Finally, he reached toward her as if in a dream, his hand curling around her narrow waist before he lifted his eyes back to hers and kissed her fervently. All trace of his earlier nervousness and hesitation was gone as his hands moved over her, caressing her stomach and waist before sliding up her back. She moaned loudly, sliding her hands beneath his shirt, suddenly desperate to feel his skin. She pushed the hem up slowly as her hands moved from his stomach to his chest before sliding around and up his back. She broke off the kiss then as she pulled off his shirt, letting it fall from her hands to join her gown on the ground.

She let her eyes wander leisurely over his upper body, enjoying the view. From his broad shoulders and muscular chest the lines of his body tapered beautifully to a delightfully narrow waist and flat stomach. She reached out to touch him, trying not to swoon as her hands moved slowly over the hard, finely sculpted muscles of his chest. Her fingertips traced the spot where he had taken an arrow to the shoulder—a lifetime ago at Ostagar—before she leaned forward to kiss the old wound gently. A smile crossed her lips as his breath caught and shuddered out of him, letting her mouth follow as her hands slid slowly down his body. She knelt in front of him as she kissed and caressed his stomach, tracing the muscles with her tongue and listening to his labored breathing as she deftly unbuckled his belt. She considered trailing her kisses lower for a moment, but quickly dismissed the idea—it would end their night too soon.

"Sit," she whispered, keeping her hands on his waist and guiding him down to her pallet. She lowered her eyes to remove his boots and to pull his trousers the rest of the way off his body, feeling the heat of his gaze as he watched her intently. When she had tossed away his clothing, she lifted her eyes to his, crawling toward him and kissing him deeply. She felt his hands on her hips and moved to sit in his lap, listening to him moan softly. She felt a moan rise in her own throat as his hands moved up her back, the feel of his skin against hers, of his hard body against hers, nearly driving her mad. She had wanted this for so long... but his need, his want seemed to rival her own in its intensity, something that surprised Myranda a little in the tiny part of her brain that was still able to comprehend coherent thought.

Yet it was with a strange type of reverence that his hands moved over her body, the way he kissed her bordered on worship. She tilted her head back, panting softly as he bent his head to slowly kiss down her neck toward her chest. For any other man it would have been an act of lust—for him there was nothing but pure devotion. There was desire, but it felt more like a desire to venerate her as he would a goddess. The very thought made her want to cry and filled her with a strange new kind of determination. She would make every attempt to be the goddess he saw in her. She wanted to make this night—his first—one that he would never forget.

She gasped suddenly, arching her back as he lowered his mouth over her right breast, his tongue slowly circling around her nipple. Andraste's grace, she really was lost. When had he removed the top of her underclothes?

He stopped and pulled away immediately when she gasped. "Are you all right?" he asked breathlessly.

"Yes," she moaned around her soft panting. "A gasp is... a gasp is a good thing. Oh, don't stop... _please_...." She leaned back slightly as he started to suckle her breast again, the movement causing her to grind her hips against his. He moaned at this, the vibrations sinking into her chest and resonating through her body. She shuddered uncontrollably, whispering his name and again begging him not to stop.

Alistair was lost. This was a dream... another glorious dream. He was trapped in the Fade by another desire demon—he was almost certain of it—but he didn't care. It felt so good... and right. The way she felt, the way she moved... even the slightly salty taste of her skin was better than he'd ever imagined. And the sound of her voice asking... pleading for him not to stop was enough to make everything else disappear. He kissed his way to her other breast and moved his hands to her lower back to support her as she arched lithely, moaning again, louder, when she rocked her hips slowly and deliberately against him. It was a dream, and he didn't care if he ever woke up.

Myranda straightened her spine as his hands moved slowly up her back, curling forward as she cradled him to her breast. Her own hands wandered aimlessly along his arms, shoulders, and back, desperate to touch him but feeling no urgency about it. She was lost in the sensations of her body and loving every moment, never wanting it to end. She watched him pull reluctantly away from her breast, his eyes lifting to hers before kissing her lips softly. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders as he ran the fingertips of one hand slowly up her spine to cradle her head before shifting, never breaking their kiss as he moved to lay her gently on her back. She lifted her leg immediately to wrap around his waist, moaning when his hand slid down her side and over her hip before trailing along her thigh.

She found herself panting heavily when he pulled gently and reluctantly out of the kiss, knowing what had to happen next. She met his slightly nervous look with a smile, lowering her leg and reaching down to guide his hands to her hips and her final piece of clothing.

She lifted her hips as she had him pull off the undergarment, trying not to shudder as the cool air met her warm skin. She watched him carefully, noting how he nervously kept his eyes averted until the garment was completely removed. When he did look back at her, his eyes wandered slowly over her body, almost in disbelief.

"Maker's breath," he whispered, "you're so beautiful, Myranda."

For some reason, Myranda felt a blush creep up her neck and into her cheeks at the comment. He sounded so awestruck... so overcome by her, that she suddenly felt embarrassed.

Alistair frowned, misreading her unease. "Did I..."

"No, no," she whispered. "You've done nothing wrong. I just... I've never heard anyone sound so... captivated... before." She smiled gently at him. "It's just a little... startling."

"I'm surprised you haven't turned the Maker's head." He kissed her softly. "Though I'm glad for it," he whispered, "because then what chance would I have?"

She smiled and kissed him softly. "Be careful what you say," she teased. "You don't want it to go to my head, do you?"

"It's all true, so why not?"

Her smile softened and she kissed him again, slowly and deeply. "The Maker Himself couldn't turn me away from you," she whispered when she pulled away. "I love you."

He smiled gently at her, lifting his hand to brush his fingers along her face. "Can I touch you?"

"You already have," she murmured, taking his hand and laying it on her chest over her pounding heart. "Here."

He smiled a little before lowering his eyes to look down at her, watching as she guided his hand down between her breasts and over her stomach... and didn't stop. He swallowed as she moved his hand through the patch of soft blonde curls and down between her open legs. He looked at her when she started to breathe a little harder, watching as a mysterious and incredibly erotic smile crossed her lips before she pushed one finger into her.

He couldn't help the sharp gasp that escaped him then. Her skin was so warm... slick and smooth like the finest silk. He barely felt her pull her hand away as he slid his fingers back and forth, closing his eyes and enjoying the feel of her.

Myranda closed her eyes and moaned softly, trying not to squirm as his fingers moved up and down between her lips. It was an exquisite torment... especially when he—all unknowing—rubbed against her sweet spot again and again and again. "Yes," she whispered, "oh, _yes_. That's... that's what it feels like... how you know I'm ready...." She ran her hands down along his body and pushed off the last piece of his clothing, being careful not to touch him. In his excitement he wouldn't last very long.

She sighed softly, a little disappointed, when he pulled his hand from between her legs, though her disappointment faded quickly when he kissed her mouth softly and deeply. She moaned into his mouth, her tongue seeking his out as he lay on top of her, wrapping her leg around him and rocking gently against him. When he pulled away to look down at her again, she nodded a little, panting with her excitement and slight nervousness. When he hesitated, she smiled and lifted her hand to his face. "This is what I want."

"I know," he said around his own panting breath.

But Myranda still saw the fear lingering in his eyes and kissed him briefly before leaning up to whisper into his ear. "You want this just as much as I do. There's no need to hold back. This is _easy_... just let go and let it happen." She pulled away a little to look into his eyes, her next words ghosting across his lips. "Trust me."

"I do trust you," he whispered. "I just don't want to hurt you, my love."

"You aren't going hurt me," she murmured. "I promise. I'm ready... you've done everything right and I'm prepared." She traced her fingertips lightly along his jaw, looking deep into his eyes. "It's hurting you," she whispered, "isn't it?"

"Yes." He sounded... almost ashamed.

"This will ease the ache... for both of us. I want this... _need_ this." She fought to keep the desperation from her voice as she rocked her hips gently against his, her sex rubbing against his, causing him to gasp softly. "Just take your time and move slowly. You already know what to do... just relax and trust your instincts." She kissed him again, deeply, before pulling away to whisper, "I promise it will feel better than anything you've ever dreamed."

He took a deep breath before kissing her again, losing himself in her to try and forget his nervous fear. She rubbed against him again and he couldn't fight the groan of pleasure that rose in his throat. The feel of her satin-smooth wetness against that most sensitive part of his body was unbelievable—and he ached to feel more. He broke the kiss again, panting heavily as he stared down at her divinely beautiful face, watching as she opened her incredible green eyes only to have the look in them pull the breath from his body: pure, carnal lust the likes of which he'd only dreamed of seeing.

" _Please_ ," she begged.

His brain shut down entirely at her whispered plea. Taking a breath to steady himself, he rocked his hips forward to slide into her.

Myranda tilted her head back and gasped loudly as he moved inside her, overwhelmed by the extreme pleasure. "Oh, Maker..." she breathed. How could she have forgotten this feeling... this beautiful and wonderful bliss that was beyond all words?

"Myranda?"

"I'm fine," she managed. "That's good... so _very_ good. It's just... been a long time."

The rest of the night passed as if in a dream. There was something about their slow, gentle lovemaking that transported Myranda into a delightful state of bliss unlike anything she'd ever known. She gave him very little guidance as they moved together in their passionate dance—he didn't need it. Everything he did set her nerves on fire and felt exquisite. She whispered her encouragement into his ear, though most of the time words failed to express her euphoria... aside from her pleas to the Maker and Andraste for him not to stop. Her hands slowly wandered everywhere, reveling in the feel of his skin and memorizing him through touch alone. She fought to keep her eyes open, watching him as he raced toward the pinnacle of breathtaking ecstasy and powerful release.

She never wanted to forget any of it.

An hour later, she lay with her eyes closed, her breathing nearly steady though her heart continued to leap and skip about in her breast. She couldn't keep the smile from creeping across her lips, not only from the wondrous afterglow, but also because she could feel his eyes lingering on her body. She didn't know when she fell asleep, but she knew she felt warm, safe, cherished, and loved.

 

~*~*~*~*~

 

 

**Dawn**

 

Myranda woke slowly, keeping her eyes closed. To open her eyes would be to face the world and all its horrors, and she was happy here: warm and content. She snuggled closer to the source of the warmth. "What time is it?" she asked softly.

"It's nearly dawn," Alistair answered.

The words, spoken in a dark, rich murmur, were a caress to her ears, like the finest velvet. The sound of his voice alone nearly made her shiver. She rolled onto her back and sighed. "I suppose that means we'll have to get up."

"I suppose so," he said, making no move to leave. "You know," he said thoughtfully a few moments later, a smile in his voice, "according to all the sisters at the monastery, I should have been struck by lightning by now."

A smile slowly crept across Myranda's lips. "Is that so?"

"Yep. Lightning first, then the end of civilization as we know it. I'm a bad, bad man."

A soft giggle rose in the blonde woman's throat, and not only from his hand tickling across her stomach. "The sisters have _no_ idea what they're missing."

"Should I enlighten them, do you think?"

"As long as you don't demonstrate, my love." She laughed again in the long pause that followed. She could see without opening her eyes the blush that colored his cheeks. The growing sense of unease that started to permeate the air, however, worried her slightly. "What's the matter?"

"You... do realize the rest of our little party here is going to talk, right? They do that."

Myranda opened her eyes then to see him propped up on one elbow looking down at her. "First smart comment and I feed them to the darkspawn."

Alistair smiled. "See? _This_ is why I love you."

"I thought it was because I was pretty and could handle a sword," she teased.

"Well, there is that, too."

She smiled and leaned up to kiss him softly and briefly before snuggling against him again.

"So... what now? Where do we go from here?"

Myranda looked up at him, placing her hand on his chest over his heart. "We stay together," she said solemnly, "no matter what happens."

"Right. I can handle that." He took her hand gently in his and lifted it to his lips, kissing first her palm and then the inside of her wrist.

Myranda took a deep breath as a delightful shiver ran through her body.

"Before we go," he said softly, holding her hand against his heart, "I just want to thank you. No one's ever made me feel this way. I wasn't... sure it could happen, in fact."

She smiled up at him. "There's no need to thank me," she murmured, pulling her hand from beneath his to trail her fingertips along his face. "It was my pleasure... although I suppose I should say it was _our_ pleasure," she added as she wrinkled her nose in a silent laugh.

"Definitely ours," he agreed, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

"But I want you to know I feel the same way. I've never felt so completely... perfect."

"Good to know," he said before leaning down to kiss her.

Myranda returned the kiss softly, letting it flow into another and another, each with more passion than the last. Finally, she moved her hand to his chest and pushed him gently away. "Go," she murmured, turning her face away and closing her eyes. "Go before I beg you to stay."

Alistair smiled down at her. Taking her hand again, he raised it to his lips to place a soft, lingering kiss against her fingers. "Your desire is my command," he murmured.

Myranda gasped and moaned softly, the words sending the most wonderful shock through her and making her all the more aware of his presence, his proximity and her own sudden and insatiable need. "Oh, Maker's mercy," she breathed. "You know my asking you to go has _nothing_ to do with what I desire."

"Then what is your desire, my lady?"

She looked back up at him, her lust very clear in her emerald eyes. "You know what I desire," she whispered.

"Do I?" he asked with a grin, teasing her.

She wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing her body up against him as she wrapped one leg around his. "You should."

"Hm. Maybe you're right."

Myranda smirked. "And what is it that you desire, ser knight?" she murmured against his lips.

"You."

She smiled as he kissed her, happily and effortlessly drowning in the rising tide of their mutual passion. A soft moan escaped her as he gently pushed her onto her back and rolled on top of her, sliding her fingertips slowly up his spine as she lifted her leg to wrap around his waist. His hands slid slowly up and down her sides before gently cupping her breasts as his tongue teased into her open mouth, inflaming her all the more. She rocked her hips methodically, the movement a gentle, sensual torture for both of them as they moved together, preparing to again become one.

A sudden and very loud bark interrupted them, startling them both. They looked over to see a mabari standing by the bedside, watching them and wagging his stubby tail furiously.

"Baby," Myranda said, reaching out to scratch the dog behind one of his ears. "I'm a little busy at the moment. Can't it wait?"

Baby sat and simply stared at her, panting happily.

She looked back up at Alistair, lifting one eyebrow questioningly.

He shook his head. "Not with him watching."

Myranda laughed softly. "Oh, all right," she said, reluctantly allowing him to pull away. "Although it isn't like he's going to tell anyone."

"Having an audience, though... creepy."

She laughed again before pulling the covers up and closing her eyes as she drank in the scent clinging to the bedclothes: sweat, sex, and—most importantly— _his_ scent. She burrowed deeper into the blanket and sighed, already missing his warmth and presence next to her. She opened her eyes to see that he was mostly dressed—missing only his shirt, which was in his hands—and was heading for the entrance to her tent. "Alistair."

He turned to look back at her.

"I love you," she murmured.

He smiled affectionately at her. "And I love you, Myranda," he murmured.

She smiled and blew him a kiss, giggling softly as he pretended to catch it before ducking out of her tent. Her smile faded then and she looked back at the mabari. "I suppose you did that on purpose," she said.

He barked.

"Well, thank you for ruining what would have been a wonderful morning."

Baby whined apologetically, lowering his head a little.

"Oh, it's all right. I suppose you're right: we should get going. Just... don't do it again." She sighed and sat up, reaching for her undergarments. "A small, spoiled child," she muttered as she pulled them on. "That's all you are."

He barked.

"Yes, I love you. What would I do without my Baby?" She reached over and rubbed him affectionately.

She dressed quickly, trying desperately to ignore how tight her leggings felt and how they rubbed in an almost erotic way between her legs. She smiled as she caught sight of the rose she had received the night before, picking it up and breathing the soft, sweet fragrance deeply. She'd have to wrap the stem in a moist cloth to preserve it... or maybe Wynne could put some sort of spell on it. She would have to ask later.

She stepped out of her tent and glanced almost immediately at Alistair's tent, a ridiculous grin crossing her lips. Should she duck inside and see what he was up to? Maybe he was catching up on his sleep... or working off the energy they had built up earlier that morning. Well, if it was the latter, she could _certainly_ help him with it. But no. It would defeat the purpose of her getting dressed... and they didn't have time. Shaking her head, she walked out of the camp toward the nearby lake.

Leliana looked up as she approached, a grin crossing her lips. "Good morning!" she said brightly.

"Good morning."

"How did you sleep?" Her crystalline blue eyes twinkled with merriment.

"Quite well, thank you," Myranda replied, refusing to be goaded into blushing. She knelt by the lake and gathered some of the water in her hands before plunging her face into them and rubbing her eyes. "I take it the watch was quiet."

"Well, mostly. I heard some noises once or twice." She saw the quick, telltale pausing of the Grey Warden's hands only because she was looking for it. "But it was probably nothing. Animals, perhaps."

"Most likely." She wiped her face with her sleeve before looking up at the sky, a soft sigh escaping her. "It's a beautiful day, isn't it?"

Leliana looked up at the rainclouds looming darkly over them before looking back at the blonde with a grin. "Is it?"

"This is probably the most perfect day I've seen in a long time."

The redhead watched the dreamy smile cross the other woman's face and giggled suddenly.

Myranda looked at her. "What?" she asked. "What's funny?"

"Oh, nothing. I'm just happy."

The Grey Warden lifted an eyebrow at her, eyeing her suspiciously before catching the bard's merriment and laughing softly herself.

"So where are we headed next?"

"The Brecilian Forest," Myranda said, grabbing a stick and idly sketching a rough map in the sand. "Which leads me to a question: how are our supplies?"

Leliana frowned. "I believe they would get us to the forest, where we may have better luck foraging for food, but..." her voice trailed off and she bit her lip. "I wonder if... if we couldn't stop in Lothering? I'd like to make sure that things are going well there."

"Certainly," Myranda agreed.

Bright blue eyes lifted. "Really? Do you mean that?"

"Of course!" the blonde said with a smile. "Why not? It would give us another chance to restock our supplies as well."

Leliana smiled. "Thank you. I appreciate that."

"So we stop here," Myranda said, digging her stick into the sand in Lothering's approximate location. "Even without that stop it'll take several days—about two weeks, I think—just to get to the Brecilian Forest, even if we leave the road here," she pointed to a place just east of the dot she had indicated as Lothering. "And the Dalish are nomadic... who knows how long it'll take to find them once we get there."

"I think once we enter the forest, they will find us." She looked up over Myranda's shoulder then and grinned. "Ah, good morning, Alistair."

"Good morning." He struggled to breathe as Myranda looked at him. "Good morning, Myranda."

"Good morning."

"You slept well, I hope?"

"Exquisitely well," she replied with a slight smile. "And you?"

"I don't think I slept at all last night."

Myranda forced herself to look concerned. "Nightmares?" she asked.

He smiled at her. "Oh, no," he said softly. "The most wonderful and beautiful dream you could imagine."

Myranda fought the blush that started to creep up her neck and the knowing smile that tugged her lips.

Leliana watched this exchange with an experienced eye and a bemused look on her face. The very air had changed when they looked at each other. It was absolutely fascinating.

"So!" Alistair said, struggling for something to say to keep from kissing Myranda. "What are you two up to?"

"Planning our route to the Brecilian Forest," Leliana said.

"And how to find the Dalish once we get there," Myranda added. She lifted an eyebrow at him. "Any suggestions?" she asked, waving to her map.

He stepped closer, trying not to get dizzy from Myranda's proximity. It was taking all his willpower just to _breathe_ normally.

"I'd suggest cutting through the Wilds," Myranda said, "but that's not going to be a good idea."

"Not with the darkspawn army there." Had she just moved closer to him?

"Precisely."

"Well," Leliana said, a smirk tugging at one corner of her mouth, "allow me to leave you to your planning. If you will excuse me?"

Myranda nodded. "Certainly."

"Of course," Alistair said before looking back at the map in the sand. "Are we passing through Lothering?"

"I promised Leliana we would."

He paused, glancing up to see that the bard had, indeed, gone before speaking again, softly so as not to be overheard. "I think she knows."

"She does."

"What do we do?"

Myranda fought back her smile, pretending to still study her map. "I told you," she said softly, "first smart comment and I'll feed them to the darkspawn."

He looked at her and smiled a little. "Why do I believe that you'd do it?"

"Because it doesn't matter to me what they think." She looked at him. "Though it matters to me what they say of you."

"So you think it's all right that she knows?"

"I think Leliana saw this coming before either of us did. I'd be surprised if she didn't see it now."

"I love you, Myranda."

She smiled. "And I love you." She turned as he wrapped his arms around her waist, threading her arms about his shoulders and tilting her forehead against his. She closed her eyes, enjoying being in his arms as they stood together. She tightened her arms around him, hugging him to her as he lowered his head to nuzzle her neck. "Oh, darling," she whispered into his ear.

Alistair hugged her tighter, trying to memorize how he felt in that moment. He lost himself in the feel of her body pressed against his, breathed deeply the scent of her hair and skin, listened intently to the sound of her voice in his ear. He never wanted to forget any of it... especially since it might never happen again.

Myranda noticed immediately the change in him, how he clung to her almost desperately. She tilted her head to look at him, wondering what had happened. He lifted his eyes to hers and she found herself happily falling into them, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Suddenly he frowned and looked away, as if not daring to meet her eyes. The smile faded from her lips. "Something's bothering you," she said, tracing her fingertips gently along his cheek. "What is it?"

"I... I lost control. Last night. I didn't..."

"That's common, love," she interrupted. "It was your first night, after all. It's also harder for women to reach a sexual climax than it is for men. And just because I didn't reach a peak doesn't mean I didn't enjoy it."

He looked at her again. "But I don't want to... what I mean is..." his voice trailed off as he searched for the words before he sighed heavily. "I just wish I was better at this," he said.

She smirked and walked her fingers slowly up his chest. "Well, you're just going to have to..." she paused and grinned at him before tapping him on the nose, "practice."

He smiled a little at her then, taking her hand and kissing her fingers. "They'll be the first lessons I've ever looked forward to."

"Oh, I look forward to them, too." She rubbed her nose playfully against his. "And, trust me, I won't complain if you take your time perfecting your lessons."

"Won't you?"

"Certainly not." She interlaced her fingers with his. "Though you did _quite_ well for your first time," she whispered.

"Really?

"Mm hmm." She smiled. "You just need to stop worrying so much."

He returned her smile gently. "I'll try."

"I'll help you."

"Thank you, my lady," he murmured, leaning toward her.

"No, don't," she whispered against his lips. "Don't kiss me. We don't have time."

"Are you sure?"

"No," she whimpered. "I'm not sure." They stood hovering on the precipice for a few more dangerously long moments, panting softly into each other's mouths, before she pulled away reluctantly, breathing a sigh of resignation. "Come on," she said. "We should be going."

"Yeah... you're right."

Myranda led the way back, listening to Alistair's footsteps one step behind her. She bit her lip, fighting against the needful clawing in her blood and brain. She had to fight it... they didn't have time for her to act on it.

When they were almost back at camp, she found herself pulling him suddenly behind one of the larger trees. He followed obediently, immediately returning her soft, deep kiss. She moaned softly, pressing her body against his as his hands wandered over her back. She pulled away several long moments later only to find her lips recaptured as she was pulled into a deeper, more passionate kiss. Another louder moan rose in her throat, and the thought of finding a secluded glade to finish what they had started earlier that morning crossed her mind as she rocked her hips against him, relishing the moan that rose in his throat. But there was no time for that... no, she'd have to wait until night fell again. She broke the kiss again... and quickly succumbed to another, her self-control crumbling further as they rocked gently against each other. A few minutes... they could spare a few minutes. They wouldn't need to find another place... he could take her right here. No... no, no, no. With great effort, she pulled away a third time, placing a finger to his lips before he could kiss her again and send her beyond all reason. They stared at each other, panting heavily, before Alistair grinned at her. Myranda wrinkled her nose in a silent giggle, lowering her leg which, at some point, she had lifted to wrap around his waist. She slid around the trunk of the tree and started back toward the camp again, shaking her head a little and resetting her features as she heard him fall into step one pace behind her. The ridiculous grin refused to be displaced, however, and, against her will, she felt it returning to her lips.

"You are very bad for my concentration," she murmured.

"I told you," he said softly, a smile in his voice, "I'm a bad, bad man."

"Yes, you are. Just what am I going to do with you?"

"You'll think of something."

"A few things come to mind, actually." She glanced at him over her shoulder, a mischievous gleam in her eyes. "None of them I'll do just now, however."

"You are a bad girl, Myranda Cousland," he said.

She smirked. "More than you know."


	19. The Crow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Myranda and Alistair wander through a ridiculously happy and romantic haze. And pick up a new party member.

**Chapter 19: The Crow**

_"The best way to destroy an enemy is to make him a friend." ~Abraham Lincoln_

 

Myranda felt like dancing down the road. Even as the miserably cold rain started, she couldn't suppress her giddy delight. It could snow for all she cared. She kept finding herself going up onto her toes, and was hard-pressed to keep from spinning. She found herself humming a Summerday festival song and giggled to herself. Here it was, almost Harvestmere, and she was singing about Summerday! Summerday had not been a happy time for her when it had occurred, but now... now was different. Now she was in love... madly, _passionately_ in love... and, better still, that love was returned. She couldn't remember ever feeling so light and free, so incredibly happy that she was without words to express it. It was better than anything she could have ever dreamed. Oh, yes, certainly she had shared a love with Rory, but there had always been a darkness attached to it—the fear of discovery and what that could mean had tainted it. This new love was light and pure and lovely and there was nothing that could ever darken it. Yes, Ferelden was crumbling down around them, rent by Blight and civil war, but, at that moment, Myranda didn't care.

Alistair watched as Myranda nearly skipped along and smiled to himself. She was even singing in the rain—he heard snatches of a festival tune every once in a while before she giggled to herself. He'd never seen her so happy... though he thought he knew the reason for it. He had never known he could feel the way he did—so wonderfully light and free and, well, happy. It was as if the world was bright and new, the rain smelled so fresh and clean. He only wished he was more experienced... to make it better for her. He wanted her to feel exactly the same way he did. Although, by the way she kept dancing as she walked down the road, she had to feel something close.

When they stopped for the night, the rain had stopped and the two Grey Wardens made a precautionary trip around the camp. As they traveled closer to the Korcari Wilds, the likelihood of their running into darkspawn increased, and so the more necessary these scouting missions would become. That, however, did not matter to either of them at that particular moment.

As soon as they were out of sight of the others, Myranda reached over and took Alistair's hand, smiling at him as he interlaced their fingers. They chatted about various topics as they made a wide circle around the camp, laughing and talking about anything and everything.

"Do you know," she said as they completed their circle, "how many times I've wanted to kiss you today?"

"Do you know how many times I wanted you to?" he asked, grinning at her.

She giggled and pulled him behind a tree, though they were still out of sight of the camp, before pulling him into a deeply passionate kiss. Their tongues dueled back and forth, tasting and exploring each other's mouths as they wrapped their arms around each other. Myranda moaned, arching her body into him and sighed regretfully when he pulled away. She opened her eyes—which had fallen closed at some point—to find him looking at her with a curious expression on his face. "What is it?"

"This is the Fade, isn't it?" he asked softly, running his fingertips over her face. "I'm dreaming again."

She smiled. "No, darling. This is real." She kissed him then. "And last night was real." She kissed him again, deeper this time. "All of it is real." She watched him smile gently at her before he caught her lips in another long, deep kiss that curled her toes and made all of Thedas vanish from around them.

"I love you, Myranda," he breathed when they finally broke apart again.

"And I love you," she murmured, "dearest Alistair. I love you to the depths of my soul." She kissed him again, forcing herself to pull away after only a few minutes. "Will you come to me tonight?"

"Are you joking?" he asked with a slight laugh. "An archdemon couldn't keep me away."

She giggled. "Anxious to start your lessons, are you?"

"You could say that," he said, nuzzling her affectionately.

"Mmm... keep that up and I'll start them right now."

He laughed softly, kissing her neck before lifting his head to kiss her lips again. He broke away a few long minutes later, pulling her out from behind the tree. "Come on," he said, "before they start to wonder about us."

She smiled, following and releasing his hand reluctantly as they walked back into camp again.

Four of the travelers chatted amiably over supper that night, which consisted of venison stew with some various herbs Wynne had gathered and two fat rabbits roasted over the fire. After dinner, as Wynne recovered a pair of knitting needles and an undyed skein of wool yarn from her pack, Leliana pulled out her lute and played a few tunes for her companions. Unlike the songs she had played on the _Fiona_ , which had been soft, sweet, and romantic, these were lighthearted and joyful. After the fourth or fifth song, Alistair yawned and stood, bowing to them and excusing himself before retiring to his tent.

Myranda watched him for a moment before turning to Leliana, who had apparently asked her something and then called her name to get her attention. The two talked and laughed with Wynne for a while longer before the elder woman retired as well, though Leliana and Myranda followed her example a short time later.

Myranda pulled off her armor and fidgeted with her shirt for a long time before finally pulling it off as well. Her heart thudded in her chest in her excitement, almost unable to contain it. She sat, then lounged, then finally lay back on her pallet, shifting her position three or four times trying to determine how to best put herself on display before finally relenting to the chill in the air and pulling her blanket over her half-naked body.

She looked up at the sound of movement outside her tent after what felt like a long time, smiling when Alistair ducked inside a moment later. She sat up as he moved to kneel next to her, meeting his kiss with a soft moan of anticipation. Their hands wandered slowly over each other, Myranda slipping hers beneath his shirt to feel his skin as he cupped her still clad breasts before sliding his hands down her stomach and around her waist. She pulled away a few moments later and giggled softly before hugging him tightly.

"What's so funny?" he murmured into her ear, a smile in his voice.

"Nothing... I'm just happy." She pulled back to look at him, smiling at him. "I love you."

He smiled back at her before kissing her again, pushing her gently back down as he stretched out beside her. He broke their kiss as she pushed up his shirt, helping her remove it before catching her lips again, slipping underneath the blanket with her.

Myranda rolled on top of him, pulling slowly and gently out of the kiss before folding her hands on his chest and resting her chin on them. Several long moments passed where they simply stared at each other, smiling and sharing the occasional soft, slow kiss, content to simply be in each other's company—for now.

Alistair lifted one hand to trace his fingertips over her face, loving how she leaned into his touch with a contented sigh as her eyes fell gently closed. By the grace of Andraste, he hadn't thought it possible to love someone as much as he loved her. And how in the Maker's name had he managed to be lucky enough for her to love him back? Though there was one thing that was still troubling him. "About last night..."

"Last night was wonderful," she said, opening her eyes again.

"I don't think..." he started to say before she cut him off with a lingering kiss. He returned this surprise kiss until she pulled away again. "You deserve to..." he tried again, but was again interrupted by a kiss. "Are you going to let me finish?" he finally asked when she pulled away again.

"No," she said simply. "I will keep kissing you until you stop protesting."

He grinned. "That's not a good incentive."

"Yes it is," she said with a giggle. "You'll either see it my way or you'll succumb to your desires to the point that you can't speak." She kissed him again softly and briefly. "Either way, I win."

He chuckled softly. "I forgot... you like to win."

"And I usually do." She rubbed her nose against his affectionately. "I love you... so much."

"I love you, too." He smiled gently at her, running his thumb across her cheekbone. "I am a lucky man," he murmured.

Myranda smiled, lifting her head a little and moving her hand to trace her fingertips along the lines of his face. She giggled softly when he kissed her fingers as they moved over his lips, moving her hand away before leaning down to kiss him. The kiss slowly deepened, and she felt a moan rise in her throat as his tongue teased against her lips, slipping her own tongue into his mouth. She felt his hand slide from her face down her neck and over her shoulder to rub her back gently, his fingertips teasing along her skin, and pulled out of the kiss. "We're supposed to start your lessons tonight, aren't we?" she said around her soft panting.

"Yep," he said, nuzzling her. "You promised."

"Well... I should keep my promise, then." She leaned down to kiss him again, nipping gently at his lower lip, smiling at the soft moan the action produced. "Lesson one," she breathed after she pulled slowly away, "is to not think. Do whatever feels right and natural. Your lover will let you know if what you're doing feels good, and usually she won't have to say anything."

"How will I know?"

She sat up and smiled down at him. "Don't worry," she said, "you'll know. But silence and stillness are bad. Also, if you're comfortable enough, you can talk about it: what you like, what she likes. That removes some of the guesswork for you."

"It's all right to ask about... that?"

"Absolutely. When you get to the point in your relationship when you're comfortable, you _should_ talk about it. Different women like different things," she told him.

"What do _you_ like?"

She grinned and leaned down. "Tease me," she whispered against his lips. "Torture me with soft touches, gentle kisses... a lick here and there." She ran just her fingertips lightly over his chest and stomach as if to illustrate her point, teasing and caressing anywhere his breath caught. "Make me beg... and then deny me a while longer."

"Myranda..." Her soft laugh in his ear was a tease in itself.

"You see how well it works?" she murmured. "It works even better on a woman, because our whole bodies are sensitive. But tonight is about you, not me."

"But I want to be able to..." he let her interrupt again with another kiss, rolling her onto her back and laying on top of her before pulling away. "I want you to feel the same way I did last night," he murmured.

She smiled at him. "I already have. I told you: last night was wonderful, and I thoroughly enjoyed it." She rocked her hips up gently against his. "I'm looking forward to a repeat performance," she said with a wink.

"I think it ended too soon... sooner than it should have."

"You simply lack sexual stamina. And building stamina just takes practice." She grinned, her eyes glittering in the darkness. "I insist on _lots_ of practice."

He returned her grin before lowering his mouth to her ear. "Your desire is my command," he murmured.

Myranda moaned at the words. "Oh, Maker," she breathed, allowing the delightful shiver to run down her spine. She tilted her head back as he started to kiss her neck. "This will help too."

"Hm?"

"Foreplay is important for women... maybe more important than sex itself. Foreplay is what excites us. The longer it lasts, the closer we get to peak during the actual act. That's why I want you to tease me. Hold me, kiss me, touch me... all of it will help me, which will also help you." She smiled a little. "You did _very_ well at that last night," she whispered, "just go slowly and enjoy it. You have excellent instincts—use them."

"As you desire, my lady."

Myranda fell into the soft, deep kiss that followed, surrendering to the sensations of her body and forgetting all rational thought. She moaned softly as his hands moved slowly over her skin, arching her back up toward him. He did move slowly—almost agonizingly so—but she knew the greater the tease now the more pleasure to be had later, so she bit back her impatient whimpers as he slowly removed what little clothing she had left while she wasted no time removing his. She lost track of the time he spent teasing her, enjoying how he enjoyed her body, taking his time and moving with slowly building confidence. It was almost a relief when he moved to take her: she felt like a bowstring pulled completely taut.

"One other thing," she managed around her panting as she wrapped her legs around his waist, anxious to have him within her again. "If... if you feel... you're getting close... stop."

He pulled away to look at her. "Stop?"

"Yes. If you think it's... too soon... stop and focus on something else... then start again. That will help you last longer."

"Anything else?"

"No." She rocked her hips up. "Take me... please..."

He obeyed almost immediately, stopping only once, briefly, during their session. Myranda bit her lip to keep from moaning too loudly as they moved together toward a powerful sexual high. And, while she didn't peak, she came close—which pleased him when she told him as he lay next to her, panting heavily.

She propped herself up on one elbow and trailed her fingertips along his face. "Sleep," she murmured. "I know you didn't last night." She watched his eyes close, feeling his body start to relax next to hers. He fought against it and she smiled gently. "Sleep, my love. I'll still be here when you wake up."

He sighed then, as if the simple reassurance was all he needed, and nuzzled her gently. He was asleep within moments.

Myranda smiled as she watched him. There was an almost divine peacefulness about him, a peace that calmed her soul and made Ferelden's problems weigh less heavily on her mind. She brushed a kiss against his lips before settling down beside him, sighing as she snuggled closer to him. Thank the Maker he was with her. What would she do if she ever lost him?

 

 

The next morning it was more difficult to let him leave her bed, but eventually she did, with a promise that she'd go to him that night. A promise she dutifully kept.

The week passed quickly for both of them, and they barely noticed the hardships of travel and camp in the warm, happy haze that surrounded their nights and early mornings. Some of those nights they spent simply sleeping, enjoying each other's warmth and company without the sexual benefits. On the nights one or the other of them was on watch, they would catch up on sleep or sit up as well to keep each other company. The nights they shared the watch they would talk and laugh about various subjects.

One of those nights, as they sat together by the fire staring contentedly into the blaze, they somehow found themselves on the topic of his "lessons."

"How much more are you going to teach me?"

"You're not growing tired of me already are you?" Myranda teased.

"No, no, no!" Alistair said quickly. "But I wonder if you're growing tired of _me_."

"Now that you're tapping into the fabled endurance of the Grey Wardens? Certainly not," she assured him. "There are a few things I have yet to teach you... things I'd like to try. My being on top, for starters."

He looked at her in surprise. "You can do that?"

"Certainly." She smiled up at him. "Also I wonder if there isn't a game or two that you may like."

"Game?"

"A seduction game. Like..." her voice trailed off as she tried to think of something. "I don't know. If your Majesty suddenly finds himself with a new, _very_ attractive Chancellor, whose only wish is to serve your Majesty in whatever way he desires," she said with a wink. "Any fantasy you might have." She giggled at the blush that crept into his cheeks and leaned her head back against his shoulder. "No... you don't have to worry about me growing tired of you." She snuggled closer before adding softly, "My prince."

Alistair groaned. "Don't call me that."

"Why not? You can be my prince and no one else's."

"Oh." There was a pause as he considered that. "That... that would be all right, I guess."

Myranda laughed softly. "I thought you might prefer that idea."

He smiled down at her, tucking the blanket gently around her before pulling her closer and kissing her forehead. "Get some sleep, my love. I'll wake you at dawn."

She snuggled closer, wrapping her arms around his waist before settling down to sleep.

 

 

The next day Myranda chatted merrily with Leliana as they traveled slowly east. "Do you miss anything about Orlais?" she asked at one point as Leliana was dipping her arrows one by one into a small jar filled with a clear liquid.

Leliana sighed a little. "I miss Val Royeaux," she said. "Unlike other cities, where the people are the life-blood and the character, Val Royeaux was her own person, and her people little more than decorations."

"Really?"

"There was always music in Val Royeaux, streaming from the many windows—quiet refrains and triumphant choruses..." Her voice trailed off for a moment. "And always, floating above all that, the Chant, coming from the Grand Cathedral. It was magnificent."

"It sounds wonderful," Myranda said with a sigh. "My father always spoke highly of Val Royeaux... I'd love to go there one day."

"Oh, it would take me a day or two to talk about the many splendors of Orlais," the bard said. "Her golden fields, her lush meadows..."

"Her hot springs?"

"Oh, indeed! Many of them claim to heal certain ills, though I always simply enjoyed the hot water. Of course," she added, "there are bad things about Orlais as well, like anywhere else. Sometimes I am glad I am rid of it, and sometimes I miss it dearly."

"It was your home. I can't imagine you wouldn't miss it."

The redhead blushed a little, suddenly looking slightly embarrassed. "You will laugh at this," she said, "but I miss the fine things I had in Orlais."

"I'm from nobility, Leliana. I'm used to having fine things and don't think I don't miss them." She looked at the other woman. "What sorts of things do you miss?"

"You will laugh, but..." Leliana's voice trailed off for a moment as she replaced the top on the bottle and replaced it in a pouch on her belt. "Dresses," she said finally. "Fine dresses and furs. And shoes, of course. One can't mingle with nobility with bad shoes, you see."

"'Bad' shoes?" Myranda repeated.

"Orlais is very fashionable," the bard told her. "Almost ridiculously so. Ahh... but the shoes," she said with a wistful sigh. "Living with those ridiculous trends was worth it for the shoes."

"Were they ridiculous shoes?"

"Sometimes. About ten years ago all the ladies went mad for shoes with soles as large—and heavy—as bricks. But it isn't always that silly," she said quickly, warming to the subject. "When I left Orlais, the fashion was shoes with delicate, tapered heels," she explained, holding one hand parallel to the ground while angling her other hand over it to illustrate the shape of the shoe, "and embellishments in the front—a ribbon perhaps, or embroidery. In soft colors of course; it was spring."

"So you were walking on your toes?" Myranda asked.

"Not precisely, but that was rather how they looked."

"Wouldn't that be hard to walk in?"

"I wouldn't want to run in it," the other woman admitted, "or have to enter battle, but for lounging in a lady's sitting room?" She made small gesture with her hand, bringing her fingertips to her lips and kissing them before immediately pulling her hand away again, smiling at Myranda. "Perfect."

"Hm."

"The shoes made in Orlais were exquisite. Not at all like these clunky fur-lined leather boots you have in Ferelden." She looked down at her feet and made a face. "Ugh... just look at them."

Myranda looked down at her boots as well. "At least they keep the cold out," she said.

"They're sturdy shoes," the bard agreed, "but sometimes, a girl just wants to have pretty feet."

"I'd never thought of it. Then again, I've almost always worn boots. Although, when I was a child, I had little flat shoes with a strap across the middle."

"Those must have been nice," Leliana said.

"They pinched my toes and rubbed blisters on my heels, even through my stockings. I hated them."

The other woman laughed. "Perhaps they were just too small, then."

"Perhaps they were. It didn't matter at the time. I was being forced to wear them, and I was determined to hate them."

Leliana laughed at this. "I can't imagine you being such a petulant child!"

"I can be a rather petulant adult as well," the blonde noted, "when there aren't others about to help keep me calm and relaxed."

"You have seemed very relaxed of late."

"And I suppose I have been."

Leliana grinned at this, jumping onto this segue into something that had set her curiosity on edge. "So," she began, "you and Alistair...?"

Myranda looked over at her, lifting an eyebrow at her impish grin. "Alistair and I what?" she asked, though she had a feeling she knew where this was going.

"You and Alistair? Together? Looking... contented? You even have a... _glow_ about you." The bard shook her head in pretend seriousness. "So shameless."

"I'm not glowing." The blonde tried to fight back her smile, but eventually surrendered to it.

"Of course you aren't!" the other woman teased. "Leliana's just seeing things again, isn't she?" She smiled at the other woman's soft laugh. "So... how _is_ Alistair?"

"You said he looked happy."

"You know what I mean," Leliana said, nudging the blonde gently. "Alistair and you... those long nights..." she let her voice trail off suggestively, sighing softly. "He must be quite delightful," she mused almost to herself. "You wouldn't be so happy otherwise, I think. He's athletic... that's always nice." She grinned as the Grey Warden started to blush. "He is also good at following instructions, isn't he?"

Myranda laughed softly to herself. "Yes." She gave the bard an impish grin of her own. "Sometimes he has brilliant ideas of his own, too."

Leliana's eyebrows shot up. "Ooh! Fascinating! The little templar is all grown up and apparently he..." she cleared her throat "...plays well with others." She giggled girlishly then.

"All right. What are you giggling about?" Alistair asked nervously, trotting up to them. He looked at Myranda when Leliana's laughter didn't stop. "What—What is she giggling about?"

Myranda looked over at him and grinned. "Oh... nothing. We were just talking about your... performance."

"My performance?" He looked puzzled. "What performance? And why does it warrant giggling?"

"We're just talking about how you treat her in bed," Leliana said truthfully, much to Myranda's chagrin. "Nothing you should concern yourself with."

Alistair was stunned. "How I—!" He blinked and looked at Myranda for confirmation, only to see her nearly doubled over, squeezing her eyes shut and holding her hand over her mouth, her shoulders quivering with suppressed mirth. "Oh... Maker!" he said, flushing scarlet. "What is _wrong_ with you women?"

The two burst out laughing at this.

"Don't be embarrassed," Myranda said after a moment. "I said only good things."

"She did," Leliana agreed. "Such songs of praise have never been sung, even by the finest minstrels in Orlais."

"Why do I even bother?" Alistair asked rhetorically trotting further ahead, leaving the two giggling women behind him.

"Ever the diplomat, Leliana!" Myranda said when Alistair was out of earshot and she'd calmed down somewhat.

"There is no gentle way of putting it, I've noticed." She fought back another round of giggles. "Still, perhaps I should not have told him quite so... bluntly."

"He responds best to a gentle touch, I've noticed."

"In bed as well?"

The blonde woman grinned. "Indeed."

Leliana giggled. "You must keep me updated on any new developments."

"You'll be the first to know," Myranda agreed. She thought for a moment then. "Well... second. I think _I_ should be the first to know, don't you?" A giggle of her own escaped her. "Oh, you're terrible, Leliana, you know?"

"Why? Has your mind taken you back into bed with Alistair? You can't blame that on me, you know."

"I can if I wish. You brought it up, after all." She looked up the path. "And, speaking of Alistair, let me go check on him."

"If you're going to apologize, I think there's a particularly large oak down the road on the right side."

Myranda looked at the other woman in confusion before seeing the mischievous gleam in her bright blue eyes and realizing what she meant by "apologize." She felt the dark blush color her cheeks and trotted up the road where Alistair had disappeared.

When she caught up to him, she threaded her hand into the crook of his elbow, grinning when he looked at her. "Are you all right?"

"Just embarrassed... which I can't seem to get over."

Myranda giggled a little. "I don't mind. You're _adorable_ when you're flustered."

A small smile tugged at his lips. "You really mean that, don't you?"

"Yes, I do. It's one of the things I love about you." She reached down and took his hand, threading her fingers between his.

"You weren't _really_ talking about…"

"Your performance? Yes, we were... in a general, vague sort of way. Apparently I've been 'glowing,' and she wanted to know if you were the cause." She thought for a moment. "Actually, Leliana was doing most of the talking... speculating, I suppose." She frowned in mock seriousness. "Hm. Maybe I should talk to her about fantasizing about you, lest she decide to do something about it."

Alistair couldn't help chuckling at her faked brooding. "Going to feed her to the darkspawn?"

"I'm thinking about it," she replied, causing him to laugh.

"I wouldn't. She's one of the few of us who can cook!"

"Hm. True."

He smiled and leaned over to give her a quick kiss on the cheek.

Myranda pulled him to a stop before stepping closer to him leaning forward to kiss him, smiling as he closed his eyes and mimicked the movement. When they were less than an inch apart, she lifted her hand and placed her fingertip on his nose, causing his eyes to open in surprise. "Tag," she said, grinning at him. "You're it." Without another word, she turned and fled down the road toward the village, laughing as she heard Alistair starting to give chase.

She hit the flagstones of the bridge outside Lothering with a cry of triumph, racing toward the town. She looked up as she neared the end of the bridge and skidded to a halt, horrified at the sight that met her eyes. Alistair stopped just behind her, not quite running into her as his arm went around her waist. They stood in a stunned silence as the others caught them up, all of them coming to a halt as they took in the scene before them.

The village was a scorched ruin. Many of the buildings were mere outlines of what they had once been, and part of the roof on the small chantry building had fallen in. A windmill Myranda had not noticed before stood dejectedly on a nearby hill, one of its sails torn and left flapping in the breeze like a bird with a broken wing. Most of the plants had turned black from fire and Blight, and the ground below the few trees was littered with blackened leaves. What blood had been spilled had been washed away by recent rain, but the bodies of victims—mostly men, but a few women and some children—lay rotting where they had been cut down, feasts for the crows and the flies that now populated the village.

"No," Leliana breathed, collapsing to her knees. "Oh, Maker's mercy..."

"I'm sorry, Leliana," Myranda said.

"How could this happen?"

"Destroyed by the darkspawn," Alistair said.

"We should keep moving," Myranda added. "There may still be some about."

Leliana looked at her. "Couldn't we do something?" She looked at Alistair when the other Grey Warden lowered her eyes. "Anything?"

"There is precious little left," Morrigan noted. "'Twould serve no purpose to bury them at this point."

"But we can't just leave them like this!"

"I know it isn't easy, Leliana," Wynne said soothingly, "but I think Myranda's right. If we stay we could be overwhelmed just as these villagers were, and that would not help them. And unless we stop the Blight, there could be more of this in the larger cities, leaving more destruction."

Leliana looked at Wynne and then at Myranda before lowering her head and sighing heavily. "You're right," she said as she stood. "They are with the Maker now." She shook her head. "Let's just... go."

The party continued eastward, marching in a somber silence. The destruction of Lothering—a vivid reminder of the threat that hung over Ferelden—left all of them a little ill at ease.

A few miles down the road, Myranda looked up at the sound of running footsteps, her hand going to the hilt of her sword until she saw the disheveled woman hurrying toward them.

"Oh thank the Maker!" she cried. "We need help! They attacked the wagon; please help us!"

"Who attacked you?"

"Bandits... thieves. There isn't much time, please!"

Myranda looked at Alistair, who shrugged, then back at her other companions.

"They may need a healer," Wynne said, answering the question in the blonde's eyes.

"All right," the Grey Warden sighed.

"Oh, thank you!" the woman said. "Follow me! I'll take you to them!"

It was less than a mile that they followed the woman to a small narrow valley, near the middle of which seemed to be camped a small group of cutthroats. One of them, a swarthy blond elf, looked up at their approach before standing.

Myranda stopped at the entrance to the small ravine and grabbed Wynne's arm when the mage made to move past her, watching as the woman walked over to the elf and nodded slightly. "Does anyone else smell an ambush?" she asked softly.

They watched as the elf lifted his hand and made a small gesture, causing more men to appear on the ridge above them.

"I do now," Alistair said.

"Myranda! Look out!"

Myranda looked up at Leliana's shout to see a massive tree falling toward her. She only just managed to hurl herself out of the way, rolling as she hit the ground.

"The Grey Wardens will die here!" the elf leader shouted, drawing a pair of daggers.

"Damn it!" Myranda cursed as she quickly got to her feet and drew her sword. "I'm so tired of people trying to kill me!" She looked around. "Watch the traps, Alistair!" she called, though part of her soul knew the warning would be useless.

A sudden idea occurred to her and she quickly sheathed her sword before scooping up a handful of rocks and a sturdy branch and taking off after her fellow Warden, dodging arrows. "Stop," she said to him before setting the branch down into the trap a step in front of him before hurling the rocks across the empty space, causing all the traps in the area to snap closed. "Now go," she said. She drew her dagger and parried a blow from the elf leader—who had a broken-off arrow shaft in his left shoulder—before lashing out with a vicious kick to his knees and dancing back as Alistair moved to knock him back with his shield. A few precious seconds passed and the elf didn't move, so the two Grey Wardens dismissed him for dead.

Myranda dashed up a path to the ridge on the right side as Morrigan blew up the other, leaping over two trip wires to fight the assassins there. Unfortunately, she was quickly outnumbered and found herself backing away the way she came. She hit one of the two trip wires and blinked in surprise when a massive tree trunk swung down from seemingly nowhere, taking out her foes for her. She smirked. "That was easy," she muttered before heading back down to the main battlefield.

A short time later, the battle was over, the Grey Wardens and their companions sustaining minor injuries amidst a sea of dead assassins. Myranda smirked and knelt by the bodies one by one, humming with a dark cheerfulness.

"What are you doing?" Alistair asked her.

"Looting corpses," she said, liberating one of the men of six silver and a few coppers.

"Do you always sing when you do that?"

"Well, I wouldn't say I have a looting corpses song or something like that."

"It's pretty clear now, though," he said. "Someone's after us."

She frowned as she looked around at the carnage. "Yes," she said, standing. "I'm not happy about that."

"Myranda," Leliana called. "I think the leader may still be alive."

"What?!" Myranda stormed over to the unconscious elf. She knelt cautiously next to him, keeping her dagger poised over his throat just in case he decided to give up his act and suddenly come back to life. As it turned out, his act wasn't an act at all. "He's breathing," Myranda said. "Although we can fix that." She shifted her grip on her dagger.

"If we waited until he wakes up," Leliana said quickly, "we could try to get some information out of him."

Myranda looked at her. "I'm getting tired of you wanting to save the people who are trying to kill us."

"But we don't know who this man is."

"He's an assassin, Leliana. One would think that, as a bard, you'd recognize that."

"But who _is_ he?" the redhead pressed. "What's he doing here? Who sent him, and why?"

"I don't care, I _really_ don't care, and I think I know who and why."

"But you don't know. Perhaps we will find out for sure if you show some mercy."

"The same mercy he was prepared to show us?"

"He may be worth more alive than dead," the bard said. "How will you know if you simply kill him?"

Myranda stared at her furiously for several long moments. "Tie him up," she spat, turning away in disgust. "I want some answers."

"And if he doesn't tell you anything?" Alistair asked.

"Then I'll kill him. Problem solved." She pointed her dagger at Leliana. "You're the one who insisted he live, so he's _your_ pet. If he needs some kind of attention, find it." She sheathed her blade and reached for her bow and quiver. "I'm going hunting."

"Hunting?" Leliana repeated in surprise. "For what?"

Myranda smiled viciously at her. "More survivors." She turned away then, whistling for Baby to follow her.

Leliana opened her mouth to call after the blonde, but stopped at the feeling of a hand on her shoulder.

"Let her go," Alistair said. "She needs to let off some steam. Better she do it on the deer or any other assassins than on _us_."

"But should she really go alone?"

"Baby's with her. Trust me, she'll be fine."

 

 

"Myranda," Leliana called about an hour later, "he's starting to wake up."

"Finally," the blonde muttered, standing. She stormed over to where the prisoner lay, tapping her toe impatiently as she waited for him to wake.

The elven assassin groaned and winced before finally opening his eyes. "What?" He blinked to focus on the pair of boots in front of his face, the toe of one tapping with furious irritation. "I..." He lifted his eyes to see a blonde woman—one of the two Grey Wardens—scowling down at him. "Oh."

"Good morning, sunshine," Myranda said with a saccharine sweetness that was laced with acid.

"I rather thought I would wake up dead," the elf noted, his voice carrying an accent that Myranda recognized. "Or not wake up at all, as the case may be."

"If I'd had my way, you wouldn't have woken up at all, and your ashes would be on their way back to Antiva."

He lifted an interested eyebrow. "But I see you haven't killed me yet."

"I was overruled," she said, shooting a sour look at Leliana. "But that could be easily rectified."

"Of that I have no doubt," the assassin said with a slight smile. "You are most skilled. If you haven't killed me, however, you must have kept me alive for some purpose, yes?"

Myranda lifted one eyebrow. "You seem awfully glib for a prisoner."

The elf chuckled slightly at that as he struggled to sit up. "It is my way, or so I am told."

"Hmph."

"Let's see, then. I assume you kept me alive to ask me some questions, yes? If so, let me save you time and get right to the point."

Myranda nodded once. "Most wise."

"My name is Zevran. Zev to my friends. I am a member of the Antivan Crows, brought here for the sole purpose of slaying any surviving Grey Wardens. Which I have failed at, sadly."

"And what are the Antivan Crows, pray tell?"

"I can tell you that," Leliana said. "They are an order of assassins out of Antiva. Very powerful, and renowned for always getting the job done... so to speak. Someone went to great expense to hire this man."

"Quite right," Zevran said. "I'm surprised you haven't heard much of the Crows out here. Back where I come from, we're rather infamous."

"You came all the way from Antiva just to try to kill us?" Alistair asked incredulously.

"Not precisely. I was in the neighborhood when the offer came. The Crows get around, you see."

"Who hired you?" Myranda demanded.

"A rather taciturn fellow in the capital." Zevran paused, looking toward the sky in a show of thoughtfulness. "Loghain, I think his name was...? Yes that's it."

Myranda and Alistair exchanged a look. It always seemed to come back to Loghain. "And when were you to see him next?" she asked.

"I wasn't," the elf said simply. "If I had succeeded, I would have returned home and the Crows would have informed your Loghain of the results... if he didn't already know. If I had failed, I would be dead... or I should be, at least as far as the Crows are concerned." He shrugged slightly. "No need to see Loghain then."

Myranda's eyebrow quirked upward. " _If_ you had failed?" she repeated.

"What can I say? I am an eternal optimist. Although the chances of succeeding at this point seem a bit slim, don't they?" Zevran laughed then, though the sound died as Myranda's green eyes narrowed dangerously. "No, I don't suppose you'd find that funny, would you?"

"How much were you paid?"

"What difference does that make?" Alistair asked.

"Call it curiosity," she said. "I'm interested to know how highly Loghain values our heads." She looked back at the elf. "How much were you paid?" she asked again.

" _I_ wasn't paid anything," he said. "The Crows, however, were paid quite handsomely. Or so I understand." He paused for a brief moment. "Which does make me about as poor as a chantry mouse, come to think of it. Being an Antivan Crow isn't for the ambitious, to be perfectly honest."

"Does that mean you're loyal to Loghain? I hear ambition is a prerequisite for joining him."

"I have no idea what his issues are with you. The usual, I imagine. You threaten his power, yes?"

Myranda smirked. "You could say that."

"Beyond that, no, I'm not loyal to him. I was contracted to perform a service."

"And now that you've failed that service?" she asked.

Zevran shrugged slightly. "Well, that's between Loghain and the Crows. And between the Crows and myself."

"And between you and me."

He lifted an eyebrow slightly at her. "Isn't that what we're establishing now?"

Myranda stared at him for several long moments. Something about this simply wasn't right. "Why are you telling me all this?" she asked finally.

"Why not?" Zevran laughed. "I wasn't paid for silence. Not that I offered it for sale, precisely."

"Aren't you at least loyal to your employers?" The conversation was becoming more and more ludicrous and exasperating.

"Loyalty is an interesting concept," Zevran said. "If you wish, and you're done interrogating me, we can discuss it further."

Myranda folded her arms over her chest. "I'm listening," she said. "Make it quick."

"Well, here's the thing. I failed to kill you, so my life is forfeit. That's how it works. If you don't kill me, the Crows will." The elf allowed a slight smirk to cross his lips. "Thing is, I like living. And you obviously are the sort to give the Crows pause."

"So...?"

"So... let me serve you, instead."

She snorted. "And what's to stop you from finishing the job later?"

"To be completely honest, I was never given much of a choice regarding joining the Crows. They bought me on the slave market when I was a child."

"I'm still waiting for an answer."

"I think I've paid my worth back to them, plus tenfold," Zevran went on. "The only way out, however, is to sign up with someone they can't touch. Even if I _did_ kill you now, they might just kill me just on principle for failing the first time." He looked up at her and smirked slightly. "Honestly, I'd rather take my chances with you."

"I'm flattered," she said scathingly. "Can I expect the same amount of loyalty from you as your previous employers?"

The elf assassin looked slightly affronted. "I happen to be a very loyal person. Up until the point where someone expects me to die for failing. That's not a fault, really, is it?" he asked reasonably. "I mean, unless you're the sort who would do the same thing. In which case I... don't come very well recommended, I suppose."

Myranda scoffed. "You must think I'm royally stupid."

"I think you're royally tough to kill. And utterly gorgeous." He watched as her brow lowered in disapproval. "Not that I think you'll respond to simple flattery," he added quickly. He shrugged then. "But there are worse things in life than serving the whims of a deadly sex goddess."

Myranda's eyes widened in surprise, startled by the comment. Well, _that_ was a new one, to be sure. "What would you want in return?" she asked, still shaken by the comment.

"Well... let's see. Being allowed to live would be nice, and would make me marginally more useful to you. And somewhere down the line, if you should decide that you no longer have need of me, then I go on my way. Until then, I am yours. Is that fair?"

"And why would I want your service?"

"Why?" Zevran repeated, sounding slightly surprised. "Because I am skilled at many things, from fighting to stealth and picking locks. I could also warn you should the Antivan Crows attempt something more... sophisticated... now that my attempts have failed."

Myranda pursed her lips in thought. There would be an advantage in that, certainly.

"I could also stand around and look pretty, if you prefer. Warm your bed? Fend off unwanted suitors? No?"

Myranda saw Alistair tense slightly at this last suggestion and held a calming hand out to him. "Is this before or after you stab me in the back?" she asked.

Zevran clicked his tongue disapprovingly. "These things you say, they must drive the men back home simply _wild_!"

"They keep them in line."

"Indeed." He grinned then, a look that said many things. "I'm sure you are a woman whose tongue has served her well in the past."

Myranda's eyes widened as she caught the double entendre, flushing to her roots. She took a breath and coughed slightly, trying to regain her composure.

"So what shall it be?" Zevran asked. "I'll even shine armor.  You won't find a better deal, I promise."

Myranda knelt down and stared at him for several long moments, her eyes narrowed as she considered him. She unsheathed her dagger and, though the elf glanced at the blade, there was no fear in his face. He simply watched her calmly, ready to accept his fate. The corners of her mouth twitched upward as she lifted the dagger and sliced down, cutting through the elf's bonds. "Very well," she said, standing and sheathing the dagger again. "I accept your offer."

"What?!" Alistair cried. "You're taking the _assassin_ with us now? Does that really seem like a good idea?"

"Don't worry about it," she said, looking over at him. "We could use him."

He glanced at the assassin and then looked back at her. He opened his mouth to protest again, stopping when she laid a placating hand on his arm. He watched as she shook her head minutely and breathed a heavy sigh of defeat. "All right, all right," he said. "I see your point." He looked at the assassin again sidelong. "Still," he muttered. "If there was a sign we were desperate, I think it just knocked on the door and said hello."

"It will be all right," she whispered. "Trust me."

"I trust _you_ ," he murmured. "It's _him_ I worry about."

Myranda smiled and patted his arm soothingly.

"Welcome, Zevran," Leliana said. "Having an Antivan Crow join us sounds like a fine plan."

Zevran looked at her and smirked. "Oh? You are another companion-to-be, then?" He ran his eyes quickly and appreciatively along the redhead's figure. "I wasn't aware such loveliness existed amongst adventurers, surely."

Leliana made face then. "Or maybe not," she muttered.

Myranda looked over at her and smirked before reaching down to pull Zevran to his feet. He stood for a moment as if testing the strength of his legs before facing her squarely, placing a hand over his heart.

"I hereby pledge my oath of loyalty to you, until such a time as you choose to release me from it. I am your man, without reservation... this I swear." He bowed his head then in an almost regal gesture.

"Fine. But you stay in front of me." She looked around at the others. "Let's go."


	20. The Trouble with Werewolves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Grey Warden party arrives at the Dalish camp to find they're having their own troubles... what are the chances?
> 
> Amelia Mahariel belongs to maharielavellan on tumblr.

**Chapter 20: The Trouble with Werewolves**

 

The smell of impending rain hung thickly in the air that night, and distant thunder rolled ever closer to their camp. Zevran was pulling back on his shirt after the cute redhead—Leliana, she had called herself—had bandaged the wound on his shoulder when he felt another pair of eyes on him. He looked up to meet the bright emerald gaze of the Grey Warden Myranda, who was walking over with clear distrust. "Good evening, my dear Warden," he said politely.

"Care to answer some questions?" she asked without preamble, kneeling out of striking range.

The elf lifted an eyebrow. "Oh? This should be good. Go ahead."

"Why did you want to leave the Crows, exactly?"

Zevran took a deep breath, leaning back slightly as he started to cross his arms across his chest and then thought better of it. "Well, now, I imagine that's a very fair question," he said. "Being an assassin, after all, is a living at least as far as such things go." He shrugged. "I was simply never given the opportunity to choose another way. So if that choice presents itself, why should I not seize upon it?"

Myranda lifted an eyebrow. "You didn't choose to join the Crows?"

"Mm?" Zevran looked at her for a moment as if he hadn't heard her before he chuckled softly to himself. "To be truthful, I didn't even know the Crows existed when I joined them."

"Even with as famous as the Crows are supposed to be?"

The elf shrugged a little, gingerly. "I was but a boy of seven when I was purchased. For three sovereigns, I'm told. Which is a good price," he said, "considering I was all ribs and bone and didn't know the pommel of a dagger from the pointy end."

"You were made an assassin at _seven_?"

"The Crows buy all their assassins that way," Zevran told her. "Buy them young, raise them to know nothing else but murder. And if you do poorly in your training, you die."

"And that system works?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Of course. You compete against your fellow assassins, and those who survive are rightfully proud of it."

"Those who survive, hm?" Myranda stared at the ground, remembering the last time she had heard that. "I suppose it's worth it?"

"In Antiva, being a Crow gets you respect. It gets you wealth. It gets you women..." his voice trailed off for a moment before he looked back at the Grey Warden, "and men, or whatever it is you might fancy."

"I see."

"But that doesn't mean doing what is expected of you, always," the elf qualified. "And it means being expendable. It was a cage, if a gilded cage. Pretty. But confining."

"Then why didn't you just leave?"

He looked at her as if she was suddenly growing another head. "And become the next mark for some up-and-coming Crow? Not likely." He shook his head. "The only way to leave is for them to think you're dead. And even then you'd best be scarce."

"Thus why you wanted so badly to throw in with us."

"That is one reason, yes." He sighed a little. "As for what I'll do in the future... presuming that there is one... I truly can't imagine."

"Try," she encouraged.

Zevran mused quietly for a moment. "It might be interesting to go into business for myself, for a change. Far away from Antiva, of course."

"Of course."

"For now, naturally, I go where you go."

"Though I suppose the Crows will still find you. Eventually."

The elf grinned at her. "Eventually can be a very, _very_ long time if one plays one's cards right."

Myranda smirked ever so slightly. "This is true."

"Come, now," Zevran said, "enough chit-chat. Talking about the Crows summons them, you know. Any Antivan fishwife could tell you so."

The blonde woman looked up as thunder crashed over their heads. "And if we don't get inside, we'll both be soaked in a few minutes."

Zevran smirked at her. "Was that a request to share my tent?"

"Don't get any funny ideas," Myranda warned, standing. She turned to where Alistair had been sitting by the fire to find him gone. She frowned; she had wanted to ask him to join her. She sighed a little in disappointment before retreating to her tent. Another night, perhaps.

 

 

Alistair awoke suddenly to the whisper of canvas, barely audible over the loud pattering of the rain on the tent. He willed his body to relax, keeping his breathing deep and even to maintain a façade of sleep as he reached slowly for his sword. His fingers just touched the hilt when the footsteps that had been making their way slowly toward him stopped. He paused, and only just heard the distinctive singing of a blade leaving its scabbard. A short blade: a dagger.

So Zevran had decided to finish the job after all. He knew it had been a bad idea to allow him to join them. He picked up the sword silently, listening for the footsteps to continue. One... then another... then a third. He was almost within striking range. Another step. Alistair gripped the hilt of his sword, listening intently.

Another step... then another.

At the next step, Alistair sat up, swinging his sword around and down toward the intruder. The heavy blow was blocked, but only just. The dagger fell to the ground as a familiar but completely unexpected voice cried out softly in pain.

"Damn!" swore the feminine voice. Then it whispered, "Alistair, it's me!"

"Myranda?" A quick flash of lightning revealed the other Grey Warden, dripping wet and clutching her right arm. "Maker's breath!" he said, dropping his sword as the thunder rolled over their heads, "I could have killed you!"

"That's why I came armed." She shook her numb arm, trying to regain some feeling in it. "I knew if you were awake you'd think I was an intruder, but I didn't say anything because I wasn't entirely sure you weren't still asleep." She winced and cradled her arm against her chest. "I didn't want to wake you."

"What are you doing here? Is something wrong?"

She looked at him as lightning flashed brightly overhead. "Why would a woman sneak into a man's tent in the middle of the night?" she murmured huskily.

Understanding dawned immediately. It _had_ been over a week since they'd spent the night together... he'd wondered if she had indeed grown tired of him. He reached out to her, and she placed her left hand in his before allowing him to pull her toward the pallet.

Myranda sat on the edge of the bed, watching him as he took up her still tingling right hand and tenderly kissed her palm. Her eyes fell closed as his lips moved to her wrist and slowly up to the inside of her elbow, a shock of a completely different kind shooting up her arm. She tilted her head back a little, deepening her breathing as a passionate fire licked through her body. She couldn't suppress the violent shudder that coursed through her as he gently caressed her stomach through the fabric of her shirt.

"Hm. Maybe we should get you out of these wet clothes. You wouldn't want to fall ill."

Myranda found herself laughing softly. "So kind of you to look after my health, ser knight."

"My pleasure."

She reached for the hem of her shirt and pulled it off, grinning at his sharp intake of breath when he saw she wasn't wearing anything underneath. She tossed the shirt aside before returning his heated kiss, slipping under the blanket with him. Falling into the intoxicating depths of total arousal, she concentrated on nothing but the pleasures of her own body as she took in the feel, the smell, the taste of him. The rain pelting the canvas above them drowned out their moans as they teased each other toward a place beyond all reason.

Her eyes snapped open as lightning crackled audibly across the sky, followed almost immediately by a deafening boom of thunder. "Maybe we should be careful," she murmured teasingly into his ear. "You might be struck by lightning after all."

"Hm. True." She could practically see his mischievous smile. "Though I think I'm willing to take the chance."

"So..." her voice trailed off into a moan as he rocked forward to slide into her. "So am I," she said. "Oh Maker... _yes_..."

They slowly rocked together for a few minutes before she rolled on top of him, smiling a little before sitting up in his lap. She could feel the heat of his gaze as it wandered down her naked body, his hands sliding idly over her skin as he looked up at her. "Lesson twelve," she murmured. "Sometimes all you have to do is lie back and enjoy."

 

 

Myranda smiled as she woke to soft kisses being trailed along her neck and shoulder. "I see you've escaped the lightning once again."

"Won't the sisters be surprised," Alistair said, a grin in his voice.

"It's as if they want you to believe no one's ever had sex before."

"I think they tell us that because they take vows of chastity," he said before gently kissing her neck.

"They don't know themselves, so they're trying to make you believe you aren't missing anything."

He placed a soft kiss at the point of her collarbone. "I think so."

She thought about this as best she could with the distraction of him slowly trailing his kisses lower. "I think that's cruel," she said finally.

"I agree," he murmured, taking her right breast into his mouth and sucking gently on it.

Myranda moaned softly, cradling his head to her with one hand as she slid the other over his shoulders and back. She sighed softly as he pulled away again to kiss his way back up her chest and neck, along her jawline and—agonizingly—at the corner of her mouth before kissing her fully. She slid her tongue into his mouth to deepen the kiss, leaning up as he started to pull away before letting her head fall back onto the pillow.

They stared at each other for several long moments before he blinked, a sudden puzzled look crossing his face. Then it faded as he seemed to reach some kind of realization, smiling at her.

She grinned, amused by the sight of his mind working. "What?"

"I just figured something out."

"Oh? What is it?"

His smile softened. "Here lies the abyss," he recited, "the well of souls." He reached up, gently tracing his thumb across her cheekbone. "From these emerald waters doth life begin anew. Come to me, child, and I shall embrace you. In my arms lies Eternity."

Myranda blinked in bewilderment. "The Canticle of Andraste?" she asked, lifting an eyebrow at him.

He nodded. "Chapter fourteen, verse eleven." He let his fingertips slide slowly along her cheek. "I never knew what it meant before... but I think I know now."

"I'm pretty sure the second line doesn't refer to my eyes," she said with a soft laugh.

"It does for me."

She looked at him.

"It was your eyes that drew me to you—the warmth and light in them. When I looked at you that day in Redcliffe I..." his voice trailed off. "I don't know. But I felt like I truly understood then what a wonderful and beautiful person you are." He shook his head a little. "I don't know if... if that makes any sense... but if I had to pick a moment when my life started over, that would be it."

She smiled. "That's very sweet... thank you."

He smiled and kissed her gently. "Although," he murmured when they broke apart, "I could also choose the first time we spent the night together."

"I kept my eyes open that night."

"I know."

Her smile twisted into a grin. "Well, then, come and let me show you Eternity," she whispered before kissing him deeply.

 

 

"What is your opinion of the Dalish?" Myranda asked Zevran a few days later as they wandered into the Brecilian Forest.

"I know little enough of the Dalish other than the fact that my mother was one," he responded. "Or so I was told." He shrugged. "She had fallen in love with an elven woodcutter and accompanied him back to the city, leaving her clan behind for good." He looked at her when he heard her breathe a soft sigh to see her staring off into space, a gentle smile on her lips. "And there, of course," he continued, "the woodcutter died of some filthy disease and my mother was forced into prostitution to pay off his debts. Oldest tale in the book," he added with a dismissive wave of his hand.

Myranda blinked, the lovely scene she had constructed in her mind shattering into a million pieces. "Zevran, that's horrible!" she said.

"Is it?" He sounded genuinely surprised.

"I would say so!"

He shrugged. "It seemed normal enough a tale growing up, no different than the other elven boys in the whorehouse. I didn't know my mother, either, of course. She died giving birth to me. My first victim, as it were."

She shot him a look, wondering now if he wasn't making this story up. But it didn't sound like a off-the-cuff sob-story. No... this was the truth, pure and unadorned.

"We were all raised communally by the whores," he was saying. "It was a happy enough existence, ignoring the occasional beating, until eventually I was sold to the Crows."

She frowned. "I'm so sorry for you, Zevran," she said.

"Ah," he sighed, shooting her a grin, "compassion and beauty both in the same woman. It is a delight, truly... though what you say is unnecessary, even if it is appreciated."

A corner of her mouth lifted in a slight smile.

"Of course, it could have been much worse. Shall I tell you about what happened to the other whorehouse boys who did not fetch a decent price with the Crows?"

"No... perhaps not. I'm not sure I want to know."

Zevran looked at her. "Surely your life has not been so idyllic?" he said. "People like you and I are not the product of happy lives of contentment, after all."

Myranda lowered her eyes. "Well, it was at one time," she murmured.

He frowned. "Apparently I have said something to upset you. My apologies."

She waved this away. "Don't worry about it."

"To return to my original point, my mother's Dalish nature was always a point of fascination for me. Through all the years of my Crow training, the one thing of my mother's that I possessed was a pair of gloves."

"Gloves?"

"They were of Dalish make, I knew that much, and beautiful. Leather with embroidery at the cuffs. I had to keep them hidden, of course, as we were not allowed such things. Eventually they were discovered, and I never saw them again."

"I'm sorry," she said, but he waved this away. "But you don't think of yourself as Dalish, even though your mother was?" she asked.

"Not at all," he said. "I think of myself as Antivan. Still, that did not stop me from running off to join a clan when it drew near Antiva City, once."

"Really?"

He nodded. "Naturally the reality did not live up at all to the fantasies I had constructed as a boy, staring at those gloves. But such is life."

"Sometimes."

 

 

That night, Myranda snuck into Alistair's tent as she'd promised she would earlier, kissing him softly before slipping under the covers and snuggling against him. Between sex and sentry duty, neither of them had been getting much sleep the past few nights, so that was all they were going to do while enjoying each other's warmth and presence. She lay her head on his shoulder, sighing contentedly as he wrapped his arm loosely around her waist. She lay quietly for a few long minutes, listening to him breathe and debating her point before finally deciding to bring it up. "Alistair?" she murmured.

"Hm?"

"I've been thinking...."

"Ah," he said with a smile in his voice, "so that's where the extra smoke was coming from."

Myranda looked up at him and giggled before she pinched him gently. "You're terrible."

He chuckled. "Yes, I know."

"But I think it's time we stopped fooling ourselves," she said, returning to her original point.

"Haven't we done that already?" he asked, nuzzling her affectionately.

"I mean thinking we can keep this—us—a secret... because we can't."

Alistair looked down at her then. "Do you think somebody knows? I mean, I know Leliana..."

" _Everybody_ knows, darling."

"Really?" He watched as she nodded. "Oh."

"So why keep the façade? I think we only need one tent for the two of us." She nuzzled him. "It would also mean one of us wouldn't have to go to a cold bed just before dawn," she added persuasively.

"That has been difficult," he mused.

"And it will be Firstfall soon... and then in Haring when it's colder still..."

"Not to mention that the two of us will warm up faster than one alone."

"You don't have to convince _me_ it's a good idea."

"All right, love. You're right... there's no point pretending, is there?"

"None at all." She smiled and kissed him softly. "Thank you," she whispered when she pulled away again.

He smiled gently at her. "You're welcome."

She kissed him again briefly before resting her head back against his shoulder. "Good night, Alistair."

"Good night."

Myranda closed her eyes, sighing in contentment and snuggling closer to him as he began tracing small circles on her lower back. She took a slow, deep breath, breathing in his intoxicating scent as his fingertips barely touched her skin, sending a small shiver up her spine despite the warmth. "I thought we were going to skip tonight," she murmured, sliding her hand slowly up and down his side.

"We were," he said softly. "But don't you think I need to practice my lessons?"

She giggled and poked him. "Go to sleep. Remember lesson three is patience. Fatigue is detrimental to stamina. Besides, anticipation makes the sex that much better."

"Better than last night?" he murmured in her ear.

A slow smile crossed her lips and she moaned softly. "I reached a peak last night."

"So you said."

"I'll reach more if I'm rested."

"Point taken."

She laughed softly before hugging him. "Good night, darling."

"Good night, Myranda."

 

She allowed herself to sleep a little later than usual the next morning, having resolved to stop treating her affair as a shameful secret. She lay in bed until after sunup before finally detangling herself and stepping outside. Leliana, Wynne and Zevran were kneeling by the fire when she emerged, and the bard lifted an amused eyebrow at her. Myranda said nothing, merely smirked—a grin that was returned—before ducking back to her own tent to gather a few things. A couple minutes later, she walked over to Bodahn's wagon, greeting him and Sandal cheerfully before working on trading two tents for one larger one.

She and Leliana chatted amiably that day as they continued their trek eastward deeper into the forest. Myranda pressed the bard for stories of Orlais, and the other woman was happy to oblige, even telling Baby about a small, ankle-biting little dog that Lady Cecile had once had named Bon-Bon. Myranda herself laughed at this story until she almost couldn't breathe.

Behind them, Alistair grinned. It was nice to see Myranda so happy—it made what was happening seem all the more distant. His smile widened as she suddenly looked back at him, winking at her before she giggled girlishly and looked away again.

"Alistair," Wynne said suddenly, "may I have a word?"

"Of course!" Alistair replied cheerily. "Anything for my favoritest mage ever."

"It seems you and our fearless leader are inseparable these days." She glanced up the road toward Myranda before grinning at the other Grey Warden. "Joined at the... _hip_ , almost."

Leliana and Myranda, hearing this comment, looked at each other sidelong.

Alistair was suddenly wary, unnerved by the devilish gleam in the mage's eye. "That's a bit of an overstatement, don't you think?"

"Well then, now that you're in an intimate relationship, you should learn about where babies _really_ come from."

Myranda and Leliana exchanged a grin, and the blonde fought to control her giggles in the pause that followed so that Alistair wouldn't hear.

"Pardon?" he asked slowly in disbelief.

"I know the Chantry says you dream about your babies and the good Fade spirits take them out of the Fade and leave them in your arms." The mage shook her head sagely, as if at a childish idea. "But that's not true. Actually, what happens is that when a girl and a boy really love each other—"

"Andraste's flaming sword!" Alistair cried. "I know where babies come from!"

"Do you? Do you _really_?"

"I certainly _hope_ so!"

Myranda thought she would explode from trying to hold back her laughter, and Leliana looked to be having just as much trouble controlling her own mirth.

"Oh, all right then," Wynne said. "Aww, look, you're all red and mottled. How cute!"

"You did that on purpose!" Alistair said accusingly.

"Now, now Alistair," she said with a grin, "why would I do such a thing?"

"Because you're wicked. That frail old lady act? I'm _so_ not fooled. I'm on to you now."

Myranda did giggle then. "He is _quite_ adorable when he blushes," she said softly to the redheaded woman.

Leliana grinned. "So Myranda," she began slowly.

"So Leliana?"

"Is it true what they say?" she asked.

The Grey Warden looked over to see the other woman's blue eyes sparkling and smirked. "About cheese?" she asked.

Leliana blinked, confused by this reply. "No," she said. "About his feet."

Myranda smirked, the only answer she needed to give. "Do you know anything about this place?" she asked, changing the subject.

"People have always spoken of dark and mysterious woods," Leliana said, "haunted by beings unseen. The Brecilian Forest is one such forest." She looked around. "They say the Veil is thin here and spirits from the Fade pass over, drifting through the trees and giving them an unnatural and sinister intelligence."

Myranda felt herself starting to look around more as well.

"It is said that if you feel you are being watched in the Brecilian Forest, you are."

"That is not encouraging."

"No," Leliana agreed. "It isn't." She looked around. "It's one thing to hear such a thing in a village square or on a road. It is quite another to think it while walking through the place."

"Thus my sudden wariness."

It was then that an arrow whistle through the air, landing less than a foot in front of the two women.

"Stop right there, shemlen."

Myranda stopped, holding out her arm for her companions to do likewise, though Alistair's footsteps continued until he was standing right behind her left shoulder.

Out of the trees materialized an elf woman who, bow in hand, glared at them with distrust. Her light brown hair was tied back in a short tail and had large streaks of blonde cutting through it, as if bleached by the sun, though it made an interesting complement to her tanned skin and the intricate tattoos around her eyes and on her chin. Her smoky blue eyes were narrowed as she regarded the group before looking back up at Myranda. "The Dalish have camped in this spot. I suggest you go elsewhere, and quickly."

"I will not," Myranda said evenly. "I've come looking for the Dalish clans."

The elf woman snorted. "I find that hard to believe. What business could we Dalish possibly have with a group like yours?"

"We—" Alistair began.

"I will tell that to your leader," Myranda said, cutting him off, "and no one else."

The smoky blue eyes narrowed again, this time in judgment rather than suspicion. "Seeing as you are obviously no simple trespasser, I will leave it to the keeper to decide the importance of your business," she said. She made a gesture and eight more elves appeared from the trees around them. "In the camp, I suggest you keep your hands to yourself," she warned, "and remember that our arrows are still trained on you."

"Understood."

"Follow me."

They followed the elf woman into a large campsite, where the elves who were not lying on various cots—which were surprisingly few—eyed them with varying levels of suspicion and distrust. They stopped by a bald elf, whose markings resembled a sort of tree sprouted from between his eyes, who looked at them dispassionately.

"I see we have guests," was all he said.

Myranda looked hard at him, trying to figure out what kind of a man he was. She put a hand on Baby as the mabari growled menacingly at the elf.

The bald elf looked at the dog and sneered. "And a hound amongst them. As if we haven't had enough problems with such creatures." He turned then to their guide. "Who are these strangers, Mithra? I have precious little patience and less time to spend on outsiders today."

"I understand," Mithra said, "but this one"—she waved toward Myranda—"claims to have important business with our people."

"I see." The leader turned cold brown eyes to Myranda. "Tell me, stranger, what business could you possibly have with us? We have our own issues we must deal with, as you can see."

"I come representing the Grey Wardens," Myranda said. This statement sent a small shockwave amongst the adult elves who were within earshot. The obvious tension in the air eased somewhat, though Baby continued to growl deeply at the keeper.

"You might have simply said so to begin with and saved yourselves some trouble," the bald elf said. He turned to their guide then. " _Ma serannas_ , Mithra," he said, "you may return to your post."

" _Ma nuvenin_ , Keeper," Mithra said with a bow before leaving them.

"Now," the keeper said, "allow me to introduce myself. I am Zathrian, the keeper of this clan, its guide and preserver of our ancient lore. And you are?"

"Call me Myranda. This is my fellow Grey Warden Alistair," she said, gesturing to him.

"If you came to bring news of the Blight in the south, it is not needed," Zathrian said dismissively. "I had already sensed its corruption. I would have taken the clan north by now, had we the ability to move. Sadly, as you can see, we do not."

"Yes," Alistair said, "it seems like you have had your own troubles. What are the odds?" This last he added under his breath, though Myranda heard him and fought to keep the smirk off her lips as she poked him in the side.

"I imagine you are here regarding the treaty we signed centuries ago?"

"I am. I've come asking you to honor it and to help me combat the Blight."

Zathrian sighed. "Unfortunately, we may not be able to live up to the promise we made." He held up a placating hand when Myranda opened her mouth to protest. "This will require some... explanation. Please follow me."

Myranda and Alistair looked at each other as the older man turned away before following.

"The clan came to the Brecilian Forest one month ago," Zathrian explained as he led them through the camp, past the many pallets that had been laid out for the sick and dying, "as is our custom when we enter this part of Ferelden. We are always wary of the dangers in the forest, but we did not expect the werewolves would be lying in wait for us."

"Werewolves?" Leliana repeated in surprise.

"They... ambushed us," Zathrian said, "and though we drove the beasts back, much damage was done. Many of our warriors lie dying as we speak. Even with all our magic and healing skill, we will eventually be forced to slay our brethren to prevent them from becoming beasts." He looked at Myranda. "The Blight's evil must be stopped," he said, "but we are in no position to uphold our obligations. I am truly sorry," he said, bowing his head.

"Is there no way to help your men, Zathrian?" Wynne asked.

"The affliction is a curse that runs rampant in their blood," the elf replied, "bringing great agony and then ultimately either death or a transformation into something monstrous."

Myranda glanced at Alistair. _That_ sounded familiar.

"The only thing that could help them must come from the source of the curse itself, and that..." he sighed. "That would be no trivial task to retrieve."

"You're talking about a werewolf," Myranda said.

"No," Zathrian replied. "But it is the one who made these werewolves come to be. Within the Brecilian Forest dwells a great wolf—we call him Witherfang. It was within him that the curse originated, and through his blood that it has been spread. If he is killed and his heart brought to me, perhaps I could destroy the curse, but this task has proven too dangerous for us. I sent some hunters into the forest a week ago, but they have not returned. I cannot risk any more of my clan."

"'Perhaps'?" she repeated.

The keeper shrugged slightly. "There is no guarantee that this will work as I suspect, but it's the only hope we have left."

"If I were to find this Witherfang for you," Myranda said, "would you honor your treaty with us?"

"If you can indeed help, then, yes, we would honor our treaty. And I wish you luck."

"Very well."

"I must warn you," Zathrian said, "that more than werewolves lurk in the Brecilian Forest. There are dangers in the forest that you cannot imagine."

"And... how would one find this Witherfang?" Alistair asked.

"Watch for the white wolves. They are his eyes and ears in the forest."

"So if a werewolf bites us then we will become infected?" Leliana asked.

"It is possible, but not guaranteed. The only way to protect against the curse is not to be bitten. You will know within a matter of days if you have been infected. You will begin to sweat and vomit and, most tellingly, your temper will become wild and uncontrollable. If that happens to you, you should seek out Witherfang even more swiftly. Your mission at that point will be rather... personal."

"How did this curse start?" Myranda asked.

Zathrian sighed. "That is a long tale I do not have time to tell. Ask Sarel about it, if you wish."

Green eyes narrowed slightly at this evasive answer.

"Please excuse me," the Dalish keeper said, "I must return to caring for my people. Creators' speed on your way."

The group watched the keeper walk away. "So now it's werewolves," Myranda said. "Perfect."

"Their first reaction to trouble is to flee from it," Sten said with moderate disapproval. "Curious."

"Indeed."

"Well," Alistair said, "should we talk to Sarel?"

"Ah," Zevran replied, "but this leaves the question as to which is Sarel."

"He is by the fire," another elf, a young woman with light brown hair tied up in a bun, told them. "The one with the short brown hair." She pointed.

Myranda looked at her. "Thank you..." her voice trailed off and her eyebrow lifted in a question.

"My name is Lanaya," the young woman said. "I'm the first of Keeper Zathrian... what you would call his apprentice."

"Thank you, Lanaya." She looked at the rest of the group. "See what you can find out." She took Alistair's hand as he started to wander away. "Stay with me," she murmured with a slight smile. She wandered over to the campfire Lanaya had indicated. "Sarel?"

Sarel looked up at them. In keeping with the tradition of the rest of his clansmen, his face had been tattooed—his own depicting a bow that arched across his forehead with an arrow extending down the bridge of his nose. "We few wanderers greet you, shemlen," he said with aggressive hospitality. "We understand you are venturing into the haunted forest to save our brethren."

"That's the plan," Myranda said, noting how Baby's ears laid back on his head.

The elf snorted softly. "I suspect your efforts may be in vain. An entire group of our hunters went into the forest to do as you intend, and they have not returned."

"Yes, the keeper mentioned that."

"Then you are _very_ brave to adventure into such a place even knowing the danger that awaits," Sarel said with viciously sarcastic awe. "Your courage impresses us greatly!"

Myranda pursed her lips in annoyance, but subsided at the gentle touch on her arm. "I must deal with the Blight. If I can help you now so you may help me later, I will."

"Nothing will help us now," Sarel said fiercely, "least of all the meddling of an outsider!"

Myranda was about to respond when another voice, calm and soothing though slightly raspy, with an accent different from the other two elves Myranda had heard, spoke from the other side of the fire.

"You are being most unkind Sarel." It was a young woman, her auburn hair pulled back into a long, loose braid that was draped over her shoulder. Her tattoos curved around her eyes like a pair of trees, the branches crossing across the middle of her brow, though they were mostly hidden behind her bangs. The branches were mirrored by two pairs of lines that angled outward on either side of her chin. She eyed the older elf critically before she continued in her melodious lilt. "Would you refuse our hunters help simply because of the hand that offered it?"

Sarel sighed heavily, closing his eyes and bowing his head toward the young woman who had spoken. "You shame me, _lethallan_. I have allowed my bitterness to cloud my better judgment." He looked back up at Myranda then. "Forgive me, Grey Warden. It is most difficult to forget the lessons these shemlen have taught us."

The blonde nodded slightly.

"Perhaps I can yet make amends. Is there something I can do for you?"

"Could you tell me of the forest?" Myranda asked. "Your keeper was a bit... vague... on the subject."

"I will tell you what I know. Please, sit down, both of you."

Myranda sat on one of the benches, a little surprised when Alistair sat on the ground in front of her, leaning gently back against her legs. Baby sat beside him before laying down, keeping an eye on wherever Zathrian was.

"Our legends say," Sarel began, "that before the shemlen came, the Brecilian Forest was a place of our ancestors that predated even our oldest homeland. The people of the Imperium came here and gave the forest its name. If they found traces of our ancestors, we cannot say. If they did, those elves were slain or enslaved. We know only that a great many battles were fought here; these trees grow upon the graves of those who fell—shemlen and elves both."

"And...?" Myranda prompted, leaning forward slightly. Her fingertips brushed the back of Alistair's neck, and only she heard the soft intake of breath the action produced.

"So much death in one place tore the Veil into the Beyond," Sarel told her. "You know the Beyond as 'the Fade,' the place of dreams and spirits. When the Veil is torn, spirits pass into our world freely. The legends say that one great spirit possessed the wolf that became Witherfang, who passed its curse of rage onto men and created werewolves."

"So there are many spirits in the forest?"

"The forest is said to be haunted. Spirits possess the trees, the wolves, even the bodies of the dead."

"So it will be like what we saw at Redcliffe," Alistair said softly to Myranda.

"Sounds that way," she murmured. She looked back at the Dalish elf as her fingers moved to massage the back of Alistair's neck, listening to him struggling to keep his breathing steady. "Zathrian mentioned a wolf called Witherfang?"

"It was with Witherfang that the curse began. Witherfang is as much spirit as it is beast, and thus it is immortal." The young man shrugged. "Perhaps it cannot even be slain. At the very least it is old and powerful, much as Zathrian himself."

"Are you certain this Witherfang still exists?"

"So Zathrian insists. He says that Witherfang does not age as the werewolves do."

"How many werewolves are there?"

"No one knows," Sarel replied. "When the shemlen lived in these parts, the curse would spread anew to a few of them with each passing year. They would run off into the forest, never to be seen again. Eventually, all the shemlen left. One assumes the werewolves survive by passing their curse to their offspring. They have had no new blood... until now, that is."

Myranda looked around. "That's all I need to know," she said, standing and smiling fractionally as she heard Alistair's heavy sigh before he stood as well.

"One last warning," Sarel said. "The forest is like a thing alive. It changes as it wills, closing paths behind you and opening up new ones. Too many have become lost within, unable to find their way out." He gave her a hard look. "Were I you, I would endeavor not to make the forest my enemy."

She looked at him in slight puzzlement before nodding. "Thank you," she said. "We'll be careful."

Sarel returned her nod, which also served as a dismissal.

"Did you have to do that?" Alistair asked her softly as they walked away.

"Do what, darling?" she asked innocently, giggling when he looked over at her.

"I don't think I heard a word he said."

"That's all right. I was paying attention."

"Pardon me, Warden," another elf, his black hair heavily streaked with silver, said hesitantly. "I wonder if I may... speak to you a moment."

The two Grey Wardens looked at each other before Myranda smiled, taking Alistair's hand and squeezing it gently before walking over to the Dalish man.

" _Andaran atish'an_ , stranger," he said. "I am Athras. I hope the others have not been too harsh in their treatment of you."

"It's all right," she said, with a reassuring smile. "I understand."

"That is very generous of you," Athras said. "Most would assume we are unkind as a rule, and that is not the case... especially not to a Grey Warden."

Myranda nodded a little.

"But we have lost much, and it is easy to forget simple niceties at such a time."

"And having part or most of your clan infected with the werewolves' curse can't help." She was puzzled by the slightly pained look that crossed Athras's face then.

"I understand you will search for the wolves in the Brecilian Forest. I would join you, but Zathrian has... forbidden me."

Myranda frowned. "You don't seem very happy about that."

"None of us is happy about this situation, and I least of all." He looked away. "But I... shouldn't speak too much about this, especially with an outsider. I am sure you have little interest in my problems."

"Please," she said, her brow furrowing.

Athras smiled a little. "It's odd to talk so freely with a stranger, but... perhaps you can help me. My wife, Danyla, and I both fought the werewolves in the ambush. She was injured so gravely the curse spread rapidly in her."

Myranda frowned. She had an idea she knew where this was going.

"Zathrian fought hard to ease her pain, but there was little he could do. And though he says that Danyla is dead, he will not let me see her... her body. I am beginning to believe she became a werewolf, and that it is being kept from me so I do not go chasing after her." He looked at her, a desperate plea in his eyes. "If I could just... know if Danyla is alive, or what happened to her... then I could be at peace."

Myranda smiled a little. "I will seek her out in the forest," she said. "And I'll try to bring you back some news."

"I would be most grateful," Athras said. "I have an amulet made by our craftsmen. It's not much, but I would be happy to give it to you in return for any news."

The blonde looked as Athras reached out his hand to her before taking it gently. "Keep faith," she said. "I'll do what I can." She gave him one more smile before turning away. Finding her companions waiting at the edge of the camp, she made a gesture for them to be underway.


	21. Poet Trees and Other Nonsense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Myranda and party wander around in the woods for a while and have several brushes with madness.

**Chapter 21: Poet Trees and Other Nonsense**

 

"Let's try not to get lost in here," Alistair said as they wandered down the path into the forest. "Places like this can get you turned around."

"Are you doubting my navigation skills?" Myranda asked him somewhat playfully as they passed by a small tree that stood out with bright red foliage amidst the golds and oranges of autumn—apparently the only one for miles.

"No, no. Of course not. Just saying."

They wandered through the woods for several long minutes. No one knew precisely what they were looking for, least of all Myranda, but she thought if they ran into any wolves or werewolves—provided she would know a werewolf when she saw one—they would know they were on the right track. She thought she saw wolves a few times in their wanderings, but she wasn't entirely sure as she never actually got a good look.

"What do you think would cause the werewolves to attack the Dalish?" Leliana asked.

"I don't know," the other woman replied. "I'd think it was their nature, but the elves seemed so surprised by it."

"They _were_ ambushed, I suppose. That would surprise anyone."

"Usually." They passed by a small tree that stood out with bright red foliage amidst the golds and oranges of autumn—apparently the only one for miles.

Myranda stopped, stared at the tree for a moment, then looked back at Alistair. "Not a word," she said softly.

He smirked at her, but said nothing.

Leaves fluttered to the ground around them as they wandered through the woods, the occasional cool autumn breeze causing a multicolored rain to fall toward the forest floor. All was quiet except for the crunching of dried leaves underfoot.

 _Too_ quiet.

Myranda put a hand out to find Alistair had moved closer to her, hovering near her protectively with his hand on the hilt of his sword. How he expected to _draw_ it without knocking her out of the way she didn't know. "Glad it's not just me," she murmured.

"I feel like we're being watched," he said.

They heard their approach before they saw them, the padding of feet through the underbrush. There was a soft ringing of several blades leaving scabbards and a gentle wooden knocking of an arrow being notched to a bow, and Myranda stepped to the side to avoid being pushed behind Alistair. She glanced at him sideways as she drew her sword, tapping him on the hip with a gently admonishing look when he looked at her.

The appearance of the five werewolves that ran up the path toward them startled them all. They ran on all fours like wolves, but looked terribly misshapen, though it wasn't immediately apparent how until they stopped and stood up. They appeared to have the physiology of humans, with their back legs being longer than the ones in front. The five fanned out across the path, four of them flanking the one in the center, which stood out amongst the others by being a deep chestnut brown rather than one of the varied shades of grey like the others.

The leader growled at them before speaking. "The watch-wolves have spoken truly, my brothers and sisters: the Dalish send a human, of all things, to repay us for our attack, to put us in our place. What bitter irony."

"Irony?" Alistair murmured. "What's ironic about it, I wonder?"

"And who are you supposed to be?" Myranda challenged.

"You speak to Swiftrunner," the werewolf said. "I lead my cursed brothers and sisters." It growled at her again. "Turn back now, go back to the Dalish and tell them that you have failed," it commanded with another growl. "Tell them we will gladly watch them suffer the same curse we have suffered for too long. We will watch them pay!"

"You're the werewolves who ambushed the Dalish, then," Leliana said.

"We are," Swiftrunner said. "I regret only that we did not inflict every single one of them with the curse that night. How dare they send you here against us! Turn and leave, while you still have the chance!"

"Out of our way, werewolf," Myranda said, "unless you can tell us where Witherfang is."

"You think we would help you find the great wolf?" Swiftrunner snarled. "You think we would let you kill him? Then you are a fool!" He turned to the other werewolves. "Retreat to the center of the forest!"

"What's the matter? Afraid to fight us?"

The werewolf bared his teeth. "The forest has eyes of its own and it shall deal with you! You have been warned." With that they turned and ran off into the underbrush.

"Cowards!" Myranda shouted. "Come back here!"

But there was no answer.

The Grey Warden growled herself, sheathing her weapons before following the direction the werewolves had taken. Shortly after they'd stepped off the deer path, however, she sidestepped quickly to her right, brushing furiously at her left arm.

Alistair watched her, remembering suddenly how she had performed the same ritual in the Korcari Wilds. "What's the matter?"

"Hm? Oh... nothing. It's nothing." She looked up nervously. "Let's keep moving."

It was an obvious lie, but he let it go... for now. They continued through the forest for several long minutes before he realized that she was speaking under her breath. It took some time, but he finally made out her muttered mantra.

"I hate the woods... I hate the woods... I _hate_ the woods..."

It was then, suddenly, that they both sensed something familiar.

"Darkspawn," Myranda called to the group just as the first three crested a nearby hill and ran toward them. "Watch for their blood!"

The group dispatched the eight darkspawn quickly, with Myranda switching in the midst of battle from blades to bow to provide more cover fire.

They ran into more darkspawn than werewolves that evening, though a few of the beasts did engage them, trying to halt their progress toward their master. All were cut down before the party. They were also attacked by normal wolves, bears, and a variety of other woodland nasties, as if the Maker was assuring them that, yes, everything was indeed out to get them.

After one battle with a few werewolves, Myranda whirled around at the dull rustling thud of a body falling to the leaf-littered forest floor to find Wynne had collapsed. "Wynne!" she cried, hurrying back to the older woman.

Wynne groaned as the younger woman helped her to sit up. "I... fell...?" She sounded dizzy and disoriented.

"Are you all right? Were you bitten?"

"No, no." The mage shook her head. "For a moment there I thought I was... I thought it was all over."

"You need rest, that's all." Myranda was alarmed at how old and tired the other woman suddenly looked.

"I... I will explain everything, when we are back at camp," Wynne promised. "Now is not the time."

"We'll make camp soon," the blonde said. "It's starting to get dark anyway."

They camped near a small waterfall of a tiny stream that night, and though the water wasn't deep enough to bathe in, it was cool and sweet.

After a hearty supper, Myranda wandered out of the camp to visit Morrigan, who was poring over the grimoire by the light of her small campfire. "Good evening, Morrigan."

The other woman looked up. "Ah, good evening, Myranda," she said, a smile playing at the corners of her lips as she closed the book and gestured for the Grey Warden to sit.

"I'm sorry if I'm interrupting."

"You are not."

Myranda sat, looking up toward the canopy as the wind rustled through the drying leaves. "It must be nice for you to be back in a forest... I imagine it would remind you of home."

Morrigan looked around. "In its way, I suppose," she said finally. "But this forest is far different from the Wilds. Not older, but just as dark."

The blonde drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. "Life in the Wilds must have been very lonely for you growing up," she said after a while.

"At times, perhaps," Morrigan consented. "But a world full of people and buildings and things was all very foreign to me. If I wished companionship, I ran with the wolves and flew with the birds. If I spoke, 'twas to the trees."

"And did they speak back?"

"Don't be foolish," the witch chided.

The blonde woman shrugged. "I'm sorry. I'm so unfamiliar with magic, even after traveling with you and being in the tower, I don't know what's possible for mages and what's mere fancy." She looked at Morrigan and smiled a little. "Much like you say you are unfamiliar with 'my' world, I'm terribly unfamiliar with yours."

Morrigan looked at her for a moment before a slight smile crossed her lips. "I recall the first time I crept beyond the edge of the Wilds," she said. "I did so in animal form, remaining in the shadows and watching these strange townsfolk from afar."

"When was this?"

"I was no older than ten... perhaps only seven. I happened upon a noblewoman by her carriage, adorned in sparkling garments the likes of which I had never before seen. I was dazzled. This, to me, seemed what true wealth and beauty must be."

Myranda smiled a little.

"I snuck up behind her and stole a hand mirror from the carriage. 'Twas encrusted in gold and crystalline gemstones and I hugged it to my chest with delight as I sped back to the Wilds."

"What happened then?"

"Flemeth was furious with me. I was a child and had not yet come into my full power, and I had risked discovery for the sake of a pretty bauble. To teach me a lesson, Flemeth took the mirror and smashed it upon the ground. I was heartbroken."

Myranda was stunned. "But you were just a child!"

"And a foolish one," Morrigan said. "Flemeth was right to break me of my fascination." She gave the other woman a hard, cold look. "Beauty and love are fleeting and have no meaning. Survival has meaning. _Power_ has meaning. Without those lessons I would not be here today, as difficult as they might have been."

Green eyes lowered for a few moments before the Grey Warden finally spoke, softly. "They made you stronger, didn't they?"

The young witch nodded. "They did, indeed." She paused for a moment. "To return to your original question, perhaps my time in the Wilds was indeed lonely. But such was how it had to be."

"I suppose so, with the templars always hunting for you and Flemeth."

"I find myself at times wondering what might have become of the girl with the beautiful, golden mirror... but such fantasies have no place amidst reality."

"It can be nice to think about, though," Myranda said.

"There is no point in it." Morrigan thought about it for a moment. "And yet, yes, I find it somehow pleasant to think on her."

"How are you doing with the grimoire?"

"The reading is slightly slow, as, I admit, the spell on it is a powerful one. However, I hope to unlock its secrets in the next few days."

"Excellent," Myranda said, standing. "Good luck."

"You have my thanks."

"Good night, Morrigan."

"Good night."

Myranda walked back toward the main camp, looking around for Wynne to ask after her but finding her gone. She must have indeed been tired and gone to bed... a good idea for all of them. Spotting Alistair kneeling by the fire, a slow grin crossed her lips. Her steps slowed as she walked past him, laying her hand lightly on his shoulder and drawing her fingers across the back of his neck as she passed. She heard his soft intake of breath and looked back at him, smiling secretively and tilting her head a little before continuing to their tent and ducking inside.

She was already in bed when he came in ten minutes later, laying on her side with her eyes closed. She smiled as she listened to the clinking of his sword belt as he unbuckled it and laid it with hers before rolling onto her back and smiling up at him.

He looked down at her and smiled back before pulling off his boots. "You lied to me, you know," he murmured.

She blinked at him. "I haven't lied to you," she said, confused.

"You tried to make me believe you weren't a mage." A teasing grin crossed his lips then as he sat on the bedroll next to her. "And you are."

"I'm... _not_ a mage."

"Oh yes," he said. "I'm a templar, you know. I can tell." He lowered his mouth to her ear and whispered, "How else could you cast this spell on me?"

Myranda couldn't suppress the shudder that coursed through her body. "And what spell is that?" she asked breathlessly.

"Don't pretend. You know what I'm talking about."

She saw the sudden gleam in his eyes and realized then the game he was playing. She smirked a little before sighing deeply. "Yes," she said heavily. "You're right. I tried to hide it by learning swordsmanship and archery, but I guess it just wasn't enough." She looked up at him pityingly. "Whatever are you going to do with me, ser templar?"

"It's my duty to take you back to the Circle tower," he replied as he sat up again.

Myranda moaned in mock despair. "Oh, _please_ don't take me back to the tower," she begged, sitting up and taking his arm. "I'll do _anything_."

Alistair closed his eyes, struggling to hold on to his control. Her voice had become low, breathy, and seductive, the tone begging him to do all the deliciously wicked things he was imagining... and more. "I have to."

She frowned. "Is there nothing I can do to dissuade you?" she whispered into his ear. "Nothing I could offer you?"

He took a deep breath, still struggling to maintain control. "Perhaps there is one thing."

"Oh, anything. Name it, and it's yours."

"You."

She looked at him and gasped in surprise. "But ser!" she exclaimed. "That's surely forbidden!"

"You're right." He leaned over to gently kiss her neck, wrapping his arms around her waist. "But you're so beautiful," he breathed into her ear. "You could tempt the most devoted monks from their vows. How am I supposed to resist, even without being under your spell?"

Myranda tilted her head back as he kissed her neck. "Oh, ser," she moaned softly, bringing her hands up between them to lay on his chest, pushing him half-heartedly away, "we can't... we mustn't. _You_ mustn't!"

"I can't help it." He trailed kisses over her cheeks. "Your spell is too strong... I have to have you." He kissed along her jaw, listening to her soft, panting breath. "Just being near you is enough to drive me crazy."

She whimpered. "We _shouldn't_ ," she whispered, finding it incredibly difficult to stay in her character. She would have broken down _long_ before now, but the timid young mage she was pretending to be would not. It was a tease for both of them... she only hoped she could hold out.

"Then grant me one kiss," he murmured. "One taste of your sweet lips."

She looked up at him before looking away, chewing on her lower lip with apprehensive thought. "Well," she said slowly after a few seconds of deliberation, "I suppose there's no harm in a kiss."

"None at all," Alistair whispered, taking her face gently in his hands before leaning forward and placing the softest of kisses on her lips.

Myranda fought to hold herself back as she returned the kiss, though she quite willingly lost herself in the feeling of complete euphoria. She let him slowly deepen the kiss, moaning softly as he "coaxed" her lips apart and slipped his tongue into her mouth. She squirmed, wanting to move to his lap to press her body against his and kiss him with all the passion she felt in her soul; but it wouldn't be in her character's nature. Though her breasts ached for attention and she was soaked between her thighs with the anticipation of having him, she did nothing but return the ever deepening kiss, sliding her tongue slowly along his and into his mouth.

She found herself quite suddenly on her back, and she wasn't sure if he'd pushed her down, or if she'd laid back and pulled him on top of her. It ceased to matter in the next moment as his hands slipped under the hem of her shirt. She arched into him as his hands moved over her hips and around to her stomach before starting to move higher.

Then she got an idea. "Wait, wait," she whispered, catching his wrists.

"What's the matter?"

"We... we can't do this," she said. "You would be breaking your vows. And I..." she let her voice trail off, unable to hold back her whimper of lust as his fingers teased around her breasts.

"What is it, my beautiful mage?"

She looked up at him pityingly. "I've never... done this... before." She fought back a smile as she watched the grin cross his lips. She'd thought he'd like being in control.

"Well, fighting it is the hard part," he murmured. "Just let go and don't think about what you should do. Do what feels right."

Myranda grinned at him. "Be gentle with me," she whispered against his lips.

"Always, my love."

 

 

The next day brought more wandering around in the forest—sometimes in circles, not always Myranda's fault.

"I do wonder, Alistair," Morrigan said at one point during the morning. "Is it permissible for two Grey Wardens to..." her voice trailed off. "Oh, what is the word I search for?"

"Caboodle?" Alistair offered. Myranda could hear the smirk in his voice.

"Fraternize," she corrected with a slight sneer.

"What's wrong with fraternizing?" His tone was entirely too innocent and, for some reason, it made Myranda smile a little.

"It seems most undisciplined for an organization that claims it will do whatever is necessary to end the darkspawn threat."

"One thing has nothing to do with the other."

"Oh no?" Morrigan questioned. "And what if a Grey Warden was forced to choose between the Warden he loved and ending the Blight? What should his choice be?"

The smile faded from Myranda's lips.

"That is a... a ridiculous question!" Alistair said.

"And I have my answer. Most kind of you." Her triumphant smile was evident in her voice.

This was followed by Alistair noting how the witch seemed to resemble Flemeth, which earned him an acidic "I hate you so much!" and a stony silence. Zevran, meanwhile, teased Wynne and chatted with Leliana, variously trying to invite himself into the bard's tent to "offer his services" if she felt she needed a "release" for certain "urges" and attempting to get her to tell him of her Vision, which she had mentioned in response to his query of why she had joined the Grey Wardens' party.

By midday they came across what appeared to be a solid wall of vines blocking the way to the forest's center. Though Myranda, Sten and Alistair hacked at it for five solid minutes, the wall never seemed to thin. The blonde woman then turned away in disgust, making for another part of the forest.

It was then she was attacked by a tree. Not in the normal fashion of acorns, pinecones, and/or a broken branch falling onto one's head from the canopy, but in the literal sense: the tree seemed to spring to life, chasing her down and grabbing her with its twiggy hands, lifting her high into the air. It was cut down almost immediately—not literally, but by a fireball Morrigan conjured and hurled at the thing. Alistair rushed forward, catching Myranda in his arms as she fell. She shook her head and looked at him.

"Was I just attacked by a tree?"

"I'm afraid so."

She looked over his shoulder at Morrigan. "Thank you, Morrigan," she said before looking back up at Alistair and hugging him around the neck. "And thank you, dearest," she said with a smile.

"You're welcome," he said, brushing his lips against her forehead before setting her back on her feet.

They ran into several of these mad anthropomorphic trees, killing them to the best of their knowledge, which was limited, as no one was precisely sure how to kill a walking tree. But that they stopped moving they took as a positive sign. It was with no little trepidation that they wandered into a small glade rimmed by trees, with one huge, solitary oak in the center. It moved and groaned as they drew near, and immediately weapons were drawn and fireballs readied. Then it spoke.

"What manner of beast be thee that comes before this elder tree?"

Myranda looked around at her companions, who looked as baffled as she felt. "How is it you can talk?" she called.

"How do I speak?" it asked. "The same as you. I form the words and sound them true." It gazed down at her through its dark knothole eyes. "Now I have answered a query of thine, but thou hast yet to answer mine."

"Can't you see me? I'm a human."

"Ahhhh, yes," the tree said sagely, "I remember thy kind. So brief of life and all but blind to the peril you cause, the lives you take, such chaos is sown within thy wake."

"You're not going to attack us, are you?" she asked, lifting her sword slightly.

"Ah, thou speakest of the others, how filled they are with hate? I apologize on their behalf, they cannot control their fate." It took a step back and seemed to bow to them. "Allow me a moment to welcome thee. I am called the Grand Oak, sometimes the Elder Tree."

"It... rhymes?" Morrigan asked, sounding incredibly puzzled. "'Tis a rhyming tree." She said it as if she found the idea beyond ridiculous. "One can only _imagine_ what manner of spirit is involved here."

"And you thought I was being foolish when I asked if the trees spoke to you," Myranda mentioned dryly, sheathing her weapons.

"Those of the Wilds do not."

"The world is certainly full of marvelous, unexpected creations," Wynne said, awed. "Each day we see something that we never thought possible."

"Wow..." Leliana breathed.

Myranda turned back to the Grand Oak. "What... are you exactly?" she asked.

"I am an elder oak and nothing more," it said, "though once I dreamt of a time before, when I roamed the world and howled with pain, not of this world but twixt and twain. Perhaps I was a spirit then? A wandering thing drawn to this glen? But then that spirit joined with a tree; since then, a tree is all I be."

"You're _much_ more than just a tree," she replied with a smirk.

"There are many just as I, but mad they are I shall not lie. A spirit trapped within a tree, no mouth to scream or eyes to see. A cage of bark, a prison wood, a thing of rage where nature stood. So twisted sylvan they become, but I am not the same as some. I accept my fated oaken home, I feel no need to rage and roam."

"Can you tell me more about this forest?" she asked.

The Grand Oak's wooden body groaned as it shifted. "I can only speak to what a tree may see. It may not help you, but it is enough for me."

"What happened here, to make the forest like this?"

"A great war perhaps, I cannot tell. I was not here when it befell. But many deaths here, all the same, and with the deaths the spirits came." It shifted again with a loud groaning of wood. "The spirits entered corpse and tree and most went mad as thou canst see."

"Yes, we've run into a few of those," Alistair said.

"Eleven, I believe," Zevran supplied.

"The forest had a spirit of its own," the Grand Oak went on, "from back when its first seeds were sown. Perhaps she died of grief that day, or perhaps she simply went away. Or perhaps the weres are the ones to blame, for the day she left is the day they came."

Myranda looked at her companions. Was there a connection? "I don't understand," she said, turning back to the tree.

"I speak as clearly as I see. Plainer than this I cannot be."

"Do you know about the wolf the Dalish called Witherfang? Do you know where can I find its lair?"

"In the center of the forest the weres do dwell, or so go the tales my fellows tell. But they cannot be followed there; the forest doth protect the weres."

"That wall of vines," Alistair murmured. "That must be what that is."

"But why would the trees protect them?" Leliana asked.

"Perhaps weres use magic to command the trees?" the Grand Oak supplied. "All I know is they move as they please."

Myranda sighed. "Great," she muttered. "Werewolf mages. This just gets better and better." She looked back up at the Elder Tree. "Is there any other way to get to the center of the forest?" she asked.

"Unless thou thinkst it far too soon, might I ask of thee a boon? Perform the boon as I ask and I shall reward thee for the task."

"All right."

"I have but one desire, to solve a matter very dire: as I slept one early morn, a thief did come and steal an acorn."

"An... acorn."

"All I have is my being, my seed. Without it I am alone indeed. I cannot go and seek it out; yet I shall die if left without."

She looked at Alistair, who shrugged.

"How hard could it be?" he asked.

"Very well," Myranda called to the tree. "We will help you."

The Grand Oak straightened and pointed. "Go to the east to find this man," it instructed. "I shall await, do what thou can."

As they took their leave, Myranda found herself puzzling about the Grand Oak's speech patterns. "I wonder why it speaks in rhymes?" she asked aloud.

"It could be that the spirit that possessed it was a poet in its life," Wynne said.

"Does that make it a poet tree?"

Myranda looked over at Alistair, who grinned at her, before she swatted him playfully on the arm. "That was terrible," she said, with a giggle.

"Yet you're laughing."

They wandered to the east for a while before they heard a pained howl and the padding of werewolf feet on the forest floor. Weapons were drawn immediately as the creature appeared on the path ahead of them, but, strangely, it threw up its paws in surrender, backing away from the group. It also appeared to have a pale green scarf tied around its neck.

"P-please," it cried piteously. "Help... listen... I am not... the mindless beast I appear to be..."

"Who are you?" Myranda demanded.

"They... I am cursed, turned into this creature." It hunched over in apparent pain. "The curse, it... it burns in me!" It panted heavily for a few moments before lifting its eyes again. "I... fled into the forest. The werewolves, they... took me in. But I had to return. I had to!"

"Careful," Alistair murmured. "These werewolves might have laid a trap for us or something. You never know."

"Certainly looks that way," Myranda murmured back.

The werewolf staggered a few steps toward them, stopping and backing up a pace when blades were lifted for an attack. "You are... human. I am... I was once an elf, one of the Dalish folk. Do you know of my clan?"

Myranda blinked in surprise. "You are a Dalish who has already become a werewolf, then?" she asked, her blade lowering a little.

"Yes, just scant days ago. So you know what happened to us."

"I do. Can you answer some questions for me?"

"No, there... is no time. Please, you must listen..." It hunched over in pain for a few more moments before it managed to speak again. "My name is Danyla. My husband... he is called Athras."

"I spoke to Athras," Myranda said, finally sheathing her sword. "He mentioned you had been injured and he suspected you had been turned." She frowned. "He's very worried about you."

"Please, you must... bring him a message." The werewolf removed the scarf from around her neck and held it out. "This scarf I wear... bring it to him. Tell him... I love him." Tears started to roll down her furry cheeks. "Tell him... I am dead and with the gods. I beg you..."

Myranda fought the stinging in her eyes.

"I want him to be at peace," Danyla said. "He is a good man. Please do not... let him suffer thinking of me." She squeezed her eyes shut again. "Ah, the pain! The curse... is fire in my blood! Please! End it for me! End it quickly!"

"Oh, the poor woman!" Leliana said. "She's in such pain!"

"Danyla, I need answers, first," Myranda said, kneeling quickly. "Please, you must help me!"

Danyla lifted her eyes slowly. "I... I will tell you... what I know. If you promise... to end my pain."

"Very well. I promise."

"Then... then know this: the werewolves are no longer... violent animals. They have... overcome the curse. Like I have. There is a ruin in the center of the forest... you may find them there. They will think... you mean to kill them." She howled and collapsed toward the ground. "The pain! It is... too much. Please... fulfill... your promise...."

Myranda frowned and stood. "Zevran," she said. "This is your specialty." She looked over at him. "Make it quick... and painless, if you can."

He frowned and stepped cautiously forward. Elf and werewolf watched each other as the former circled the latter. Danyla growled and Zevran paused before continuing around behind her. Only then did the werewolf close her eyes, the fur beneath becoming soaked with her tears.

It was over in a moment. Danyla fell forward to the leaf-littered floor, one of Zevran's long daggers protruding from the back of her skull.

Myranda stepped forward, taking the scarf from the werewolf's paw and folding it carefully before placing it gently at the bottom of her quiver. Then she stood and, without a word, continued toward the east. The others followed silently.

The shadows were beginning to lengthen toward evening when they finally came across what looked to be a small encampment centered around the stump of what had once been a large tree.

"What in Andraste's name...?"

"Oh dear, oh dear!" a voice from above them said suddenly. "Not a werewolf and not a spirit, even, what are the woods coming to?"

The group looked up to see a small old man sitting on a nearby tree branch. His hair and clothes were filthy and ragged, and his eyes were glassy as they roved over the group with suspicion despite the maniacal grin on his face.

"A madman hiding in the forest?" Leliana asked incredulously. "What's next?"

"Who are you?" Myranda demanded.

"Questions, questions, always questions!" the old man said. "They say it was questions that made me mad; will it do the same for you?" He giggled insanely. "Ask a question and you'll get a question, but give an answer and you'll receive the same!" He giggled again. "Oh, I do so love to trade!"

"You... want me to answer a question?" Myranda asked, scarcely believing what she was hearing.

"Wouldn't I have to ask you a question first?"

"Isn't _that_ a question?"

"Would you know a question if it was asked?"

"I should certainly hope so," she said, her anger building.

"No!" the old man screamed, jumping down from his perch. "That is not a question! And if it be an answer, it be an answer to a question I've not asked! Have you no sense for the rules?"

"Why you infuriating...!"

"Be cautious," Morrigan warned. "This is no ordinary madman. He has magic... powerful magic. I can sense it."

"No fair bringing mages to a guessing game!" the crazed old man said. "Will you play by the rules or not?"

Myranda's green eyes closed and she took a deep breath and released it slowly before opening her eyes again. "Then... would you like to ask me a question?" she asked with saccharine sweetness.

"I think it is your turn to ask, is it not?"

Baby barked at the loony man then, lunging at him.

"No!" he yelled. "Bad dog! Bad dog!"

"Baby, down," Myranda ordered. "Easy, boy." She turned back to the mage. "Do you have the Grand Oak's acorn?"

"Ahhhhhh..." the mad hermit said, his eyes lighting up as if he had tricked her into revealing a valuable piece of information. "Suddenly it all becomes clear. You here, that talking tree there, it all makes sense now." He grinned. "As a matter of fact, yes, I do have that tree's acorn. I stole it and it was easy. Silly tree should have locked it up tighter! If you want it, you'll have to trade me for it. And nothing from that silly tree... no leaves or branches or anything."

"What do you want?"

" _No_!" he screamed again. "My turn! You really don't know the rules at all, do you? _Do you_?!"

Myranda pursed her lips before pushing her rage back and forcing herself to smile again. "Do you want to ask me a question, then?"

"May I?" the madman asked with insane politeness. "Oh, yes, I think I might!" He rubbed his hands together. "Now... what shall be the first?" he mused. "Oh yes! What is your name?"

"My name is Myranda."

"A-ha!" the hermit shouted. "So you claim! But you're too tricky, and you're trying to fool me!" He pointed and shook his finger at her. "Well, I'm onto you!"

The Grey Warden woman closed her eyes, stepping away to examine the large tree stump, surprised to find a large hole leading to a tiny and filthy cave of sorts. There also appeared to be a small cubby-hole within the body of the trunk itself filled with mud, twigs, and other debris.

"Hold on, you!" the deranged little man said. "That's private property! That's an old man's home, that is! Keep out! _Keep out_!"

"Hmm... No offense, but might I try?" Zevran murmured. "I've got a quick hand, after all."

Myranda eyed him before nodding minutely, deciding to give the elf a chance to prove his worth. If he was caught and then killed in the scuffle that followed, it would be an unfortunate accident. Her eyes widened suddenly as she felt a hand brush against her backside and she shot the smirking elf a death glare as he melted toward the back of the group. "Very well. It's my turn?" she asked the mad mage with exaggerated patience.

"Ask! Ask away! I dare you!"

"Who _are_ you precisely?"

"Who am I?" He eyed her with suspicious paranoia. "Why do you want to know? Did _they_ send you? Did _they_ tell you to ask?"

"Who's 'they'?"

"Oh, oh, oh! Did they tell you pretend to be an innocent stranger, with a head full of fluff and nothing? They _did_ send you, didn't they?"

Myranda and Alistair exchanged a look. "Templars," they said together.

"I'm trickier than I look!" the hermit said with a crazed laugh. "I survive still, and the trees they leave me be! I've won! _They_ will never find me! Never!" He laughed again.

" _We_ found you," Alistair pointed out.

The old man stared at him for a moment before his eyes narrowed. "So you did," he said. "But I'm watching you! If _they_ sent you, I'll know!" He looked back at Myranda then. "But there you go! An answer for an answer!"

"You mentioned before you wanted to trade," Myranda said. "What do you have?"

"Let's see," the hermit said, tapping his chin with exaggerated thoughtfulness. "I'll trade you an acorn, a helmet I found, or a book I finished reading years ago. Provided you have something interesting in return."

"You'll trade—" she cut herself off quickly, holding up one hand. "I want to trade for the acorn," she said.

The old man's eyes gleamed as he laughed again as if he had once again tricked her. "And what do you have to trade for the acorn?"

"Will you take some gold coin?"

"Coin?" he scoffed. "What possible use could I have with coin? Do you see a moneychanger about?"

Myranda sighed. "Never mind."

"Hmph! Well that's your business, then, isn't it? I still answered your question and now it's my turn again."

"Very well," she said, closing her eyes and rubbing her temple to ward off her impending headache, "proceed."

"Let's see... do you have knowledge of the arcane arts?"

Myranda opened her eyes and looked at Alistair, the slightest hint of a smile touching her lips when the other Warden grinned back at her. "Can't you tell?" she asked the mad man.

The deranged man looked put out by this answering question... or perhaps by her secretive smile—Myranda didn't care which. "If I could tell I wouldn't have to ask you, now, would I? Do you have the knowledge or not?"

"No, of course not."

"Oh, well, that's disappointing. But wait!" he cried, pointing at her. "What if you are lying?! A-ha! You thought to scamper away without suspicion, did you? Well I'm on to you!"

"As you say. What can you tell me about the forest?"

"Too many spirits, that's the problem of this forest," the crazy man said. "And all the curses and the angry wolfmen who howl enough to drive you..." a giggle escaped him before he continued, "to madness."

"Yes, we know about the werewolves."

"You yell at them but they run and hide deep within the center of the forest, and the trees protect them." His eyes gleamed again with madness before he leaned forward to mutter conspiratorially. "There's a way to fool the trees, of course. Trees are thick, wooden things, after all. Easily fooled if you know how."

"And you know how, don't you?" Myranda said, the forced smile back on her face and the saccharine sweetness creeping back into her voice.

"Oh my, now that's quite a question," the old mage said, standing straight again. "I think that answer deserves something a little extra first, don't you?"

The blonde woman pursed her lips again in frustration before replacing the sickening smile.

"I stole something from an oak tree some time ago and it won't stop pestering me for it back. Would you be so good as to turn it into firewood, or something equally dead?"

"You're talking about the rhyming oak."

"You know of it?" he asked, his eyes gleaming with sadistic glee. "Good, that makes this much easier. Yes, that's the one."

"We're not going to kill some oak tree because you ask us to!" Leliana said.

The old man made a face at her. "It's up to you, yes indeedy. Your choice! Time to move on now!"

"Myranda," Zevran cooed. "Do you not think we have bothered this man quite enough? Surely he has other things to do... some fleas to attract, perhaps?"

"I believe you're right," the Grey Warden said, noting the triumphant gleam in his eyes. "We'll be going, then."

"Oh, I see," the deranged old mage said. "You're going to report to _them_ now, are you? Fine. Good bye!"

"I'm proud of you, love," Alistair said as they walked away. "A month ago you would have gutted him outright."

"If I'd had to force myself to smile any longer, my face would break," she muttered. "And did you see how tightly I was clutching my dagger hilt?"

"Yes, I did. And I was impressed every minute you didn't draw it."

She looked over at him and smiled a little. "Speaking of gutting people," she said before looking over her other shoulder. "Zevran."

"I am at your service, my dear," the elf said, drawing even with her.

She looked at him. "What did you find?"

"Oh, that," he said. "It was definitely trapped, but I am too awesome by far," he said, waving a dismissive hand. "Here's what was inside."

Myranda held out her hand, into which he dropped a regular-sized acorn. She held it up between two fingers, looking closely at it. "Funny. I half expected it to be bigger."

"I don't expect you say that very often."

She shot the elf a puzzled look before seeing the gleam in his eye and flushing to her roots. Glancing at Alistair confirmed that he had blushed as dark as she had. She cleared her throat and quickened her step a little.

The Grand Oak turned slowly toward them as they re-entered the glade. "My acorn is still gone, so I pray to thee... hast thou any news for me?"

"Is this the acorn you seek?" Myranda called holding up the acorn Zevran had stolen from the thief.

"My joy soars to new heights indeed! I am reunited with my seed!" The Elder Tree reached down with twiggy fingers and carefully took the acorn from Myranda before placing it carefully in a knothole near its canopy... at its shoulder, had it been human. With his child secured, he turned back to the group. "As I promised, here it be. I hope its magic pleases thee."

There was a loud cracking and seconds later a solid-looking branch fell from the heights to land inches in front of Myranda. It bounced on each end after its first impact before gently rolling over and tapping against the toe of her boot. She reached down and picked it up carefully, immediately aware of the significant power it held.

"Keep this branch of mine with thee, and pass throughout the forest free."

Myranda looked back up at the oak. "Thank you," she said.

"I wish thee well, my mortal friend. Thou brought my sadness to an end. May the sunlight find you, thy days be long, thy winters kind, and thy roots be strong."


	22. The Fate of the Lycans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The werewolves are confronted in their home in a crumbling Tevinter ruin, and their fate is decided.

**Chapter 22: The Fate of the Lycans**

 

They camped that night in the Grand Oak's clearing, at the tree's insistence. ("As thou hast made things right with me, I shall this night watch over thee. So sleep in peace without a care, I shall protect you from the weres.") There was some concern about having a fire, considering their host, but these fears were dismissed as a bitter wind started to blow in from the south.

The group sat quietly together near the fire, though Sten and Zevran seemed to stay closer to the blaze than the others. Wynne was back to work on her knitting and Myranda and Alistair snuggled together under a shared blanket for extra warmth. Even Leliana was unusually quiet.

But something was starting to gnaw at Myranda, a concern voiced earlier in the day coming back to haunt her. "What should the choice be?" she murmured softly to Alistair.

"Hm?"

Myranda looked up at him. "If it came to a choice between ending the Blight and being together..."

"You weren't listening to Morrigan earlier, were you?" he asked somewhat incredulously. "We aren't going to have to make that choice."

She sighed and snuggled closer to him. "I hope not."

"Myranda?" Leliana said, stepping over to them. "May I speak to you a moment? Alone?"

"Certainly," Myranda replied untangling herself from Alistair and their blanket before standing. She followed the other woman out of the camp and her brow furrowed at the bard's nervous behavior. She was chewing on her bottom lip and refused to meet her eyes, digging the toe of her boot into the soft mulch of the forest floor. "What's the matter?"

"I lied to you, you know? About why I left Orlais."

Myranda nodded. "So you didn't get tired of the life.  I thought not."

"In a way I did, but those feelings were triggered by events which I did not tell you about." She sighed softly. "I didn't feel like talking about it then. What happened to me... maybe it will affect us, maybe not, but you should know." She lifted her eyes then. "I came to Ferelden and the Chantry because I was being hunted, in Orlais."

Myranda's eyes widened in surprise. "Hunted? What for?"

"I was framed, betrayed by someone I thought I knew and could trust. Marjolaine—she was my mentor... and... friend."

"Your lover?" the blonde asked uncertainly.

Bright blue eyes lowered. "At one time," she said softly. "She taught me the bardic arts—how to enchant with words and song, to carry myself like a high-born lady, to blend in as a servant..." her voice trailed off for a moment. "The skills I learned I used to serve her, my bard-master, because I loved her, and because I enjoyed what I did."

"How did she betray you?" Myranda asked gently.

Leliana laughed a little, but it was without humor. "You can say it was my fault. There was a man I was sent to kill. I was to bring Marjolaine everything he carried." She shook her head a little. "I don't know who this man was. She gave me a name and a description, and I hunted him down. I found documents on his body—sealed documents."

"Important documents, I assume."

The bard sighed heavily. "It turns out that they were," she murmured. "My curiosity got the better of me. Something told me that I needed to know what was in those letters." She looked up at Myranda again, and the other woman was shocked to see the first shimmers of unshed tears. "Marjolaine... had been selling all kinds of information about Orlais to other countries—Nevarra and Antiva, among others. It was treason."

"But... isn't that what bards do?"

"Some. But I had always assumed Marjolaine only operated within Orlais. This was an unhappy surprise for me."

"I would say so."

"My life as a bard taught me that my loyalties should be kept fluid. My concern was not that she was a traitor, but that her life would be in danger if she was caught. Orlais has been at war with so many countries. It takes a harsh view of such things." She looked away again. "As I later discovered."

"What do you mean?"

"I should have left well alone," Leliana said, almost harshly, "but I didn't. I had to tell Marjolaine I feared for her life. She brushed aside my concern. She admitted her guilt, but said it was in the past. That is why the documents had to be destroyed, she said." She shook her head again. "I believed her. I _believed_ her! I kept believing, up till the moment they showed me the documents, altered by her hand to make _me_ look the traitor."

Myranda's pretty face twisted into a scowl. "That bitch."

"The Orlesian guards captured me... did terrible things to make me confess and reveal my conspirators. It was a traitor's punishment I endured, and at the end of it, all that awaited me was eternity in an unmarked grave."

"How did you get out?"

The bard let out another humorless laugh. "The skills Marjolaine taught me were good for something, at least. I broke free when I saw the opportunity. But I did not seek Marjolaine out. I was tempted to confront her; I was furious, betrayed..."

"Anyone would want to confront her after that."

"But what could I do against her?" Leliana asked rhetorically. "If she thought I was coming for her, she would have me caught again."

"And so you came to Ferelden," Myranda said slowly. "To Lothering and its chantry."

"I did. I fled: to Ferelden, to the Chantry and the Maker. Ferelden protected my person, and the Maker saved my soul." She sighed heavily and lowered her eyes to the forest floor again. "And that is the reason I am here. The _real_ reason. No more lies between us, at least in this."

Myranda smiled a little, reaching out and putting her hand on the redhead's shoulder. "Thank you for trusting me with this."

Leliana looked up and smiled slightly. "It feels good to have this off my chest. Thank you for listening, and understanding."

"I understand betrayal and a need for revenge better than you know. If it comes to affect us, we'll handle it... together." She was surprised when the redhead hugged her suddenly.

"You are a good friend, Myranda," she said. "Thank you."

Myranda returned the hug before turning the other woman back toward the camp. "Come on," she said, pulling her along. "Let's get some much-deserved rest. Hopefully this will all be over tomorrow." She gave the other woman a pat on the back as she sent her toward her tent, her steps slowing as she approached the imposing form that was Sten. "Sten?"

"Warden."

"I have a question."

"I am hardly surprised," the qunari muttered.

"Why did you come to Ferelden?"

"To answer a question," he said simply.

Myranda blinked. Whatever answer she had been expecting, that wasn't it. "What was the question?"

"The Arishok asked, 'What is the Blight?' By his curiosity, I am now here."

"What's an arishok?"

"The one who commands the _antaam_ —the body of the qunari."

"Like your king?"

"No."

She waited for further explanation, but, as expected, none was forthcoming. "And why does the arishok care about the Blight?"

He looked at her then. "Why do you?"

"I'm a Grey Warden," she said. "It's my job."

"Exactly. You don't ask. Nor do I. The Arishok sends me, and I go."

"I imagine you have more than enough information for your arishok by now," she said. "Don't you have to report back?"

"Yes."

Myranda was puzzled by this. "So... what are you still doing here, then? Surely it can't be because you feel indebted to me?"

Sten looked away. "I cannot go home," he said simply.

She waited, but, again, he offered no explanation. "Well," she said after several long moments, "you can stay with us."

There was another long moment of silence. And then, surprisingly, "Thank you."

She looked at him, surprised that he seemed bothered by something. Oh, it was subtle, to be certain—all of the qunari's moods except annoyance were subtle—but she could sense that he was in some small way troubled. "You seem a bit homesick," she said after a while, sitting nearby.

Sten looked at her for a moment as if considering her words. "Perhaps," he said finally. "It's strange to be in a crowd and hear a language that is not your own. To see faces that are and aren't like yours."

"Is there something specific you miss?"

"I miss the smells of Seheron," he said, "tea and incense and the sea. Ferelden smells of wet dogs."

This comment startled a laugh out of the blonde woman. "Surely it's not _that_ bad. I would think the sharp, crisp smell of mud would help cover it."

The qunari looked at her again, and though the humor in her comment did not seem to pass him by, he didn't smile. "You are not quite as callow as I thought," he said. "That is... unexpected."

Green eyes blinked. "Callow?" she repeated. "You thought I was callow?"

"You sound surprised. You must have heard this before."

"Actually no," she said, her good humor fading. "I haven't."

"You'll get over it. Eventually."

"Remind me, I seem to have forgotten: Why did I let you out of that cage again?" she asked viciously.

"I have wondered that, myself," Sten said, shocking her again. "It is one of the many things I find puzzling about your behavior."

"Well, I find plenty of things puzzling about you, too."

He gave her an incredulous look. "What is there to be puzzled by? I'm a simple creature. I like swords. I follow orders. There's nothing else to know about me."

Myranda smirked. "I doubt very much you're that simple."

"As I said," Sten said, "you're not as callow as I thought."

Her smirk widened to a smile. Apparently, it was a compliment. And even if it wasn't, she was going to take it as such. "I've wanted to ask you about something," she said after a few moments.

"Speak, then."

"What were you doing in that cage?"

"Does it matter?"

"I'm just curious."

The qunari sighed. "Very well," he said after a moment. "I caged myself. A weak mind is a deadly foe, as you are no doubt aware."

"What exactly do you mean by 'a weak mind'?"

"That is... complicated," he said. "I told you before that I was sent here. I was not sent alone. I came to your lands with seven of the Beresaad—my brothers—to seek answers about the Blight. We made our way across the Fereldan countryside without incident, seeing nothing of the threat we were sent to observe. Until the night we camped by Lake Calenhad."

Myranda listened intently to this recount. It was, thus far, the longest speech she'd ever heard him utter.

"They came from everywhere: The earth beneath our feet, the air above us, our own shadows harbored the darkspawn." He lowered his eyes. "I saw the last of the creatures cut down, too late. I fell."

Green eyes lowered as well. "That sounds like what happened to me at Ostagar."

"I heard the stories of Ostagar," he said. "Your kith stood their ground when others fled. No one can do more than that."

Myranda looked back up and smiled a little. "Thank you."

"I don't know how long I lay on the battlefield among the dead," Sten continued, "nor do I know how the farmers found me. I only know that when I woke, I was no longer among my brothers. And my sword was gone from my hand."

"You probably dropped it on the battlefield."

"Perhaps," he sighed. "I searched for it. And when that failed, I asked my rescuers what had become of it."

Myranda waited as he paused. "And then?" she prompted gently.

"I killed them," he said. "With my bare hands." He watched the blonde woman's face register all the horror the human guards had shown when they witnessed the carnage. "I did," he said. "I knew they didn't have the blade. They had no reason to lie to me. I... panicked."

He'd said the word like something shameful, and Myranda felt a bubble of pity rise in her throat.

"Unthinking, I struck them down."

"That's terrible," she said.

"I know," he admitted. "I cannot justify what I have done. My honor is forfeit." He looked at his right hand—his dominant, though he wielded a two-handed weapon. "That sword was made for my hand alone. I have carried it from the day I was set into the Beresaad. I was to die wielding it for my people." The hand curled into a fist. "Even if I could cross Ferelden and Tevinter unarmed and alone to bring my report to the Arishok, I would be slain on sight by the _antaam_." He lowered his head—in shame. "They would know me as soulless, a deserter. No soldier would cast aside his blade while he drew breath."

"Couldn't you search for it?" Myranda asked. "If you found it, wouldn't that mean you could go home and report back to your arishok?"

"If I knew where to look, it would be in my hand now."

"Don't worry," she said, standing. "We'll find it. If we have to retrace every step between your battlefield and the farmer's home near Lothering, I'll try to find your sword for you."

Sten looked up, peering at her curiously. "Perhaps those words are empty," he said, "but..." his voice trailed off and the slightest hint of a smile touched the corners of his mouth, "thank you all the same."

Myranda smiled and nodded to him. "Get some rest," she said. "I imagine we'll be fighting a lot of werewolves tomorrow."

 

 

After a peaceful night of uninterrupted sleep, the party bid its last farewells to the Grand Oak and set off back toward the wall of vines it had encountered before. Myranda wondered how and if the wall would open with her wielding the Elder Oak's branch or if she would have to leave it to Wynne or Morrigan, but she needn't have been concerned. As soon as they neared the vines, they rustled—though no wind blew—and then slowly detangled and parted so the party could pass. As soon as they were on the other side of the wall the hole closed tightly behind them, as if it had never existed in the first place. Seeing no more need for her to carry the branch, Myranda offered it to Morrigan, who took it with an appreciative comment on its power.

They rounded a corner to a large clearing, in the middle of which sat what would have been a spectacular building in the days of the Tevinter occupation. A group of werewolves, led again by the one Myranda recognized as Swiftrunner, were running toward them.

"Prepare yourselves," the blonde ordered, pulling her bow off her shoulder and drawing an arrow from her quiver.

Swiftrunner stopped a few feet from them. "The forest has not been vigilant enough. Still you come." He growled menacingly at them. "You are stronger than we could have anticipated. The Dalish chose well. But you do not belong here, outsider. Leave this place!"

"If you think I'm going to leave just because you tell me to," Myranda said, "then you are sadly mistaken."

The chestnut brown werewolf snarled at her. "You are sent by the treacherous Dalish to kill Witherfang! I will not stand by and allow that to happen!"

"You call the Dalish treacherous? _You_ attacked _them_."

"And they deserved no less!" He growled again, deep in his throat. "You are an intruder in our home! You come to kill, as all your kind do! We have learned this lesson well. Here Witherfang protects us. Here we learn our names and are beloved. We will defend Witherfang and this place with our lives!"

As if on a cue, the other werewolves rushed forward in an attack.

"Then you will die," Myranda shouted, sending an arrow into the throat of one of the smaller lycans.

The battle did not last long. When most of the wolves were dead, Myranda looked around for Swiftrunner, who was effectively warding off every attack from Sten. She drew an arrow and placed it to her bowstring, aiming carefully. If she took down Swiftrunner, then the rest of the resistance would crumble.

She loosed the arrow, but straight up into the air when she was suddenly knocked to the ground by a large white wolf. The wolf snarled at her, and then, before Myranda could draw her knife, leapt away, tripping up Alistair before galloping toward the ruined building.

"We are invaded!" another werewolf, this one with pure black fur, called. "Intruders have deceived their way into the forest's heart!"

"Fall back to the ruins!" Swiftrunner ordered. "Protect the Lady!"

Myranda blinked at this. "Lady?" she repeated. She winced as the arrow she had loosed whistled into the ground next to her.

"Are you all right, Myranda?" Wynne asked.

"Oh, yes, I'm fine." She pulled the arrow from the ground and replaced it in her quiver before looking at the bow in her hand. It had been snapped into two pieces, apparently from when the white wolf had jumped on her. "Well, shit," she swore, tossing the useless thing away.

"So now we head to the ruins?" Leliana asked.

"I guess so," she replied, getting to her feet and brushing off her backside. "Let's go."

"No one in your country repairs anything when they occupy it, do they?" Sten grumbled as they neared the crumbling ruin, overgrown with vines and various other plant life.

"Blame the elves," Myranda said. "They're probably the only ones in Ferelden who know this is here... if _they_ even know." She pushed open the door, which creaked loudly on unoiled hinges, and led the way into the gloom.

The large main room held a massive double stairway that led down to the middle of the central hall, where a small dais was set in the center of the floor. The forest had set to reclaiming it over the centuries, and large roots and trees erupted from the floor in several places. The sound of water dripping into a puddle echoed from an unknown location as they made their way down the stairs to the floor. There was a hallway with a long stairway off to their right, and, following it, they found themselves facing a massive oak door which was locked and, according to Wynne and Morrigan, magically sealed. Returning to the main room revealed there was only one other exit: another door opposite the entry, which looked as if it hadn't been opened in some time by the way the walls around it were covered in massive cobwebs.

Myranda looked at the door for a few long moments before turning to Alistair. "You lead," she said. She nodded, forcing a smile when he looked at her. "Go ahead. I'll be right behind you."

Alistair looked back at the doorway, reaching out with his sword to cut away the sticky webs before reaching out and turning the knob. The door opened to reveal a long corridor, the air and floor thick with centuries of dust and the walls and high ceiling covered with large spider webs.

The group continued nervously down the corridor, Myranda slipping further and further toward the back. An unnatural hissing and clicking sounded from somewhere near the ceiling, followed by a soft whimper from someone. Suddenly, Baby stopped and barked toward a place above them.

That's when the five monstrous spiders—twice as big as a mabari—descended from the ceiling, fangs dripping poison and multiple beady eyes glittering in the gloom. All shrieked as blades, arrows, and magic were plunged into their bodies.

Alistair turned at the sound of Myranda screaming. She was, surprisingly, running away, with one of the large arachnids hot on her heels. "Myranda!" he shouted, chasing after the other Warden, Baby rushing by him toward his mistress.

"Help!" she screamed as she ran by Wynne and out the open doorway. The sound of the hideous thing being frozen in place did not even make her pause. She ran almost completely back up the main stairway before tripping and falling to the floor on the landing between the two flights. She struggled to her feet and would have bolted out into the forest if not for Alistair's hand on her arm.

"Myranda, stop!" She turned to look at him, her green eyes wide with a terror he'd never seen in her before. The blonde woman was breathing so quickly and heavily that he was sure she would pass out. "Myranda?"

"Are they gone? Are they all dead now?" She grabbed his wrist. "Tell me you killed them."

"Yes, they're gone." He watched as she breathed a deep sigh of relief and gave her an odd look. "You're afraid of spiders?"

She nodded. "Even the small ones."

Alistair laughed suddenly. "You'll face off against darkspawn, abominations, and demons without blinking and yet you're afraid of a tiny little spider?"

She glared up at him. "Don't make me kill you," she growled. "And did you happen to notice how big those things were?"

"All right, I'm sorry. It's not funny. It just seems strange, considering the monsters we've faced, that you're afraid of spiders."

"I did not realize there was this much cowardice within the Wardens," Sten grumbled.

Myranda glared at him. "Because _you_ are afraid of nothing... have never panicked and acted out of fear." She said no more. She didn't have to.

"Perhaps 'tis a bad time to tell you I can shapeshift into such a spider," Morrigan told her. "Only much larger."

"You think?" Alistair asked coldly as the blonde whimpered and shuddered violently.

"Just... please don't," Myranda said to the witch. "Unless you want to see me completely shame the Grey Wardens by screaming like a madwoman and fleeing into the forest."

"Then I shall not, as Alistair brings them enough disgrace by simply existing."

"Oh, thank you _so_ much." The amount of acid that dripped from Alistair's voice could have eaten through a solid bar of iron.

"Please," Myranda said, "both of you, stop. This doesn't help me."

"So what do we do?" Leliana said. "Not to frighten you, but this ruin is probably full of them."

"I would suggest using fire to clear the corridors," Wynne said, "but the building is crumbling as it is. Fire would weaken the structure and might bring the roof down on us—spiders and all."

"So our choice is to continuously walk into arachnoid ambushes," Zevran said. "I must admit I am with Myranda on this... the thought is not a pleasant one."

"Morrigan could turn into a bird," Alistair suggested.

The witch made a face. "I shall not turn into a giant bird to eat every spider in this ruin! I would sooner carve out your heart for a meal."

"Who said anything about a _giant_ bird?" he countered. "I meant a small one... so _they_ could eat _you_."

"What about ice?" Myranda asked the two mages, laying a hand on Alistair's wrist. "Water wouldn't weaken the building as quickly as the fire. Could you run a layer of ice through the ceilings?"

"It is possible, I suppose," Wynne said slowly.

"But 'twould not kill the creatures," Morrigan said, "if that is your intention."

"Then I vote fire," Myranda said. "The building be damned."

"Will you be able to fight them from a distance, if we must?" Leliana asked Myranda.

She made a face. "If I... must..."

"Then take my bow," the redhead offered, pulling it off her shoulder and handing it over. "I'll use my daggers."

"Thank you, Leliana."

After locating two makeshift torches, one of which was delegated to Myranda, they continued through the ruin, exploring the two passages off the main hallway only to find them blocked. The hallway ended in another door that opened to a large receiving room, where another set of arachnids attacked, only to be burned to cinders by a fireball from Morrigan. When the room had been cleared of its eight-legged inhabitants, the group moved inside. While the walls had been cleared of most of the webs by the fireball, long cylindrical sack-like objects—almost like cocoons—hung from the ceiling in the far corners.

"It's a dead end," Alistair said.

"A very appropriate term, I think," Zevran commented, looking around.

Leliana took Myranda's torch and stepped toward one of the cocoon-like objects, reaching up tentatively before ripping away the shiny, sticky strands to reveal the gaunt and terrified-looking face of an elf, the Dalish tattoos standing out starkly against his bloodless skin.

Myranda shrieked and turned, burying her face against Alistair's shoulder. "I hate this place!" she cried. "Let's just find Witherfang and get out of here."

"But where?" Leliana asked, handing the torch back to the Grey Warden. "There's nowhere else to go!"

"I believe there was another corridor off the main one, just before this doorway," Wynne said. "It should be on our right as we exit."

They located the corridor through a film of dusty cobwebs, burned away by Myranda's torch. The hallway looked clear, with two small sets of stairs leading downward, though only the Maker knew what lay around the corner. The blonde woman gulped audibly—sounding the trepidation they all felt—before they started down the stairs.

"I have a bad feeling about this passageway," Leliana said nervously when they reached the first small landing. "Why don't we turn back?"

"We've managed to get this far," Myranda said, "even with my crippling us. We may as well push on and face whatever's ahead of us."

"What if it's another giant spider... one that's bigger than the others we've seen?"

Myranda looked at her sharply. "You know," she said, "you're right. Maybe we _should_ turn back. We don't _really_ need the Dalish, do we?" she asked, looking at Alistair.

"Come on, my dear," he said, putting an arm around her shoulders and pushing her forward. "I'll protect you from the house-sized spider."

The other Grey Warden whimpered, but allowed herself to be propelled toward the unknown monster.

On the second landing, a loud sound... almost like a snore... would have sent Myranda bolting but for Alistair's arm around her shoulders.

"We should prepare ourselves for combat," Morrigan said, sounding slightly nervous herself.

"Indeed," Zevran said, drawing his daggers. "We're definitely approaching some kind of lair... I can tell by the stench."

Stepping onto another landing brought with it a loud snarling.

"Well," Wynne said, "that's certainly no spider."

They reached the bottom of the terraced stairway to a doorway with a large pointed arch—for which, according to Sten, the building's architect "obviously suffered an unrequited love"—into what was once a magnificent ballroom or grand dining room. Dappled sunlight filtered into the room through the partially collapsed ceiling, revealing the cracked multicolored tiles on the mosaic floor that would have been stunning but for the fact that it was stained by a mysterious substance the identity of which no one wanted to guess. A breeze blew outside, sending into the room the sound of the rustling leaves and the soft, pungent smell of decay. A single, vivid yellow leaf floated slowly down through the air to rest on the floor with several dozen others.

"Well, my dear Warden," Zevran said wandering around the room, "your monstrous spider has good taste in lairs."

"There is no spider."

"How do you know?" Leliana asked.

Myranda pointed up toward the high vaulted ceiling... at least, what was left of it. "No webs."

"Then what sort of creature did we hear?"

"Shh," Wynne hushed them. "Did you hear that? Sounds like... loud breathing..."

A sudden roar echoed through the chamber then, bringing their attention to the dragon swooping into the room through the hole in the roof and landing with a loud thud. It was twice as tall as an ogre and filled nearly half the room.

"See?" Alistair said to Myranda. "Just a dragon. Nothing to worry about."

Myranda shot him a look before sprinting away as the dragon lunged at them. "A strategy would be nice right about now!" she called.

"I'm working on it!"

"That sounds familiar," she said with a smirk. She drew back on the bow and launched an arrow into the beast's eye, causing it to roar in pain and fury.

Half-blind, the creature went into a frenzy, whipping its tail back and forth as it lashed its head from side to side, snapping at anyone who dared to get too close. Once it came after Myranda and Wynne, separating them and interrupting the large healing spell the latter was trying to perform. It took some time, but the group finally managed to bring the beast down, Sten driving his massive two-handed sword through the thing's skull to kill it.

Myranda walked over to Alistair, who stood panting by the creature's wings. "We need to work on your strategizing," she said with a grin.

He smiled a little at her. "You're the leader. Isn't that your job now?"

"I can't believe the werewolves went by this creature every time they walked through the ruin."

"I doubt that they did," Wynne noted, walking over to them. "Have you seen the amount of dust and filth on the walls and floor? I don't think anyone's come this way in centuries."

"Except the spiders and their victims," Zevran added, causing Myranda to cringe.

"Right," the blonde woman said. "Well... let's... keep moving. I don't want to spend the night here."

A small, narrow staircase at the back of the room led down to a lower level of the ruin—what might have been servants' passages when the building was used: low-ceilinged in most areas and claustrophobically narrow everywhere. There were large spiders in this part of the ruin as well, but probably the offspring of those that had been killed in the upper level, as these were only the same size as Baby and not larger. Myranda still cowered away from them, but managed to shoot a couple arrows into the fray.

They also ran into small packs of werewolves, no doubt sent by Swiftrunner to keep them away from Witherfang. Most of these were fought of with relative ease despite the close quarters. A much larger group of the beasts, however, ambushed them in one of the larger rooms and fought viciously. It was a long battle, though the results were the same.

Myranda turned at the sound of a dagger clattering to the floor to find Leliana clutching her shoulder, blood streaming down her arm and dripping off her fingers onto the floor. "Leliana!" she cried, rushing over to the other woman. "What happened? Were you bitten?"

"I... I was," she said, wincing as she pulled her hand away as Wynne approached and reached toward her with hands that glowed with healing magic.

"Shit," the Grey Warden swore. "Cursed creatures!"

"Remember, Myranda," Wynne said, "Zathrian said getting bitten did not guarantee infection."

"I'd rather treat it as if she is." She picked up the dagger where it had been dropped and replaced it in the sheath on the bard's belt. "Come on. We have to find Witherfang fast."

They fought and wandered through more rooms before they finally came to a room lined with shelves that were filled with bottles of mysterious substances. A bricked-up archway—pointed like all the others—stood between two of the shelving units.

"Damn it!" Myranda cursed as she looked around the room. "We've searched every room! Where in the Maker's name do we go _now_?"

"What was this place, do you think?" Leliana asked, looking around.

"It... looks rather like a laboratory," Wynne said.

"Perhaps we should start looking for secret doors?" Zevran suggested. "Laboratories are notorious for such things, as I understand."

"Hm... that's an idea," Myranda mused. "But it would take a key."

Alistair leaned against the bricked-up archway. "Could we look for the key?"

"It could be anything," the other Grey Warden said. "One of the stones on the wall that needs be pushed, an actual key that fits into an lock concealed in the mortar... there's no way to know. And without knowing for sure what the key is, it could take hours—it'd be impossible if it was an actual key."

Morrigan, who had been ignoring them all and examining the contents of the many shelves, picked up one of the larger bottles then. There was a loud grating noise of stone on stone, followed quickly by a "Whoa!" as Alistair fell through the suddenly open archway. "At last, Alistair has served some purpose," she said, replacing the bottle—and the metal bar connected to its base that ran into the wall behind it—back onto the shelf.

Myranda walked through the archway and knelt next to the other Grey Warden. "Thank you for showing us where the door is, my love," she said, leaning forward and kissing him on the forehead.

"I wish I'd found a less painful method."

"Remind me and I'll give you a backrub later." She stood then and turned to Leliana. "How's your shoulder?"

"It burns," the redhead admitted.

"Then we need to move." She led the way down a winding corridor to another large open room... into which a group of eight werewolves ran from another doorway. Blades sang from their scabbards and the air became charged with the lightning Morrigan gathered into her hands. The werewolves growled and leapt forward in an attack—an attack that Myranda and the others rushed to meet.

"Stop!"

Everyone halted at the voice—afflicted or not. Myranda looked up to see a large werewolf with jet black fur... the same werewolf she had seen on the surface.

"Brothers and sisters, be at ease!" he said before turning to Myranda and growling at her. "We do not wish any more of our people hurt," he said. "I ask you this now, outsider: are you willing to parley?"

"We're talking right now, aren't we?" she asked. "So talk."

"Not with me," he said, baring his teeth at her. "I have been sent to you on behalf of the Lady. She believes you may not be aware of everything you should be."

"Is that so?"

"She means you no harm, provided your willingness to parley in peace is an honest one."

"Careful," Alistair murmured.

"And how do I know I won't be walking into an ambush?" Myranda asked the black werewolf.

"What would be the point? You have already proven your strength. We have no wish to anger you further."

"A wise decision... if it's true." She considered the werewolf's proposition for a few moments before she stood up straight and sheathed her weapons. "Very well," she said. "Take us to this Lady of yours."

The black werewolf growled again, deep in his throat. "Follow me," he said. "But I warn you, if you break your promise and harm her, I will come back from the Fade itself to see you pay."

 

 

The party followed their guide, who had identified himself only as the Gatekeeper, into a large room which the forest had begun reclaiming by the presence of three or four goodly-sized trees erupting from the floor. Two columns of werewolves who howled and barked at them lined their path toward a large, raised dais at the far end of the room. Myranda strode calmly with Alistair and Baby beside her, glancing from side to side occasionally, especially when those werewolves the group had already passed padded up behind them to encircle them. Yet she did not reach for her weapons: to do so would be suicide.

They strode up to the dais, stopping when the Gatekeeper gestured for them to do so. The black werewolf then continued himself up the two steps onto the dais. "I have brought the outsider," he said.

The werewolf Myranda recognized as Swiftrunner turned to face them, baring his fangs and growling at them. "We do not need her, Lady," he barked. "She will betray you! We must attack her now."

"Hush, Swiftrunner," said another voice, soft, feminine and soothing. It carried the melodious sound of a bubbling stream and a breathiness like the sighing of a summer wind through the treetops. But it was strangely doubled—like that of the demons they had encountered at the tower. "Your urge for battle has only seen the death of the very ones you have been trying to save. Is that what you want?"

Swiftrunner bowed his head. "No, my lady," he said as he stepped aside. "Anything but that."

As the werewolf stepped aside, his lady was revealed. She was tiny compared to the massive werewolf, though she was probably only two or three inches shorter than Zevran. Long, beautifully straight hair flowed down her back and over her shoulders, framing her delicately lovely face and her slender neck. Her figure was superb, her skin smooth and without flaw. She was an almost divine beauty, and it took a second glance to recognize what was out of place. Her lower body was wrapped in what appeared to be the limbs—or perhaps the roots—of a young tree, disappearing around her waist only to reappear as they wrapped around her arms. The limbs also seemed to form her hands, her fingers long, delicate twigs. Her skin, though flawless, was almost unnaturally so, showing none of the details of a human woman's body, but was smooth like a dressmaker's model and seemed to be the color of the water in a forest stream. Her dark eyes were completely so, without pupil or iris or white. Her hair was also a most peculiar shade: though a bright, vivid gold near the roots, the color seemed to slowly change to a vibrant orange before fading past a deep and stunning red to a dark brown near the tips… much like the leaves of the forest above.

"Then the time has come to speak with this outsider, to set our rage aside." She turned to the group then. "I bid you welcome, mortals," she said with a slight bow of her head. "I am the Lady of the Forest."

"Thank you, Lady," Myranda said, returning the nod. "I am glad we have this chance to speak."

"I apologize on Swiftrunner's behalf. He struggles... with his nature."

Green eyes glanced around at the werewolves surrounding them, noticing how they backed away from the group at a small gesture from their mistress. "You lead the werewolves, do you?"

"Those whom I have helped are very grateful for what I have done for them," the Lady said. "I offer them guidance, but I do not command them." She held up a placating hand when Myranda opened her mouth again. "No doubt you have questions, mortal. But there are things that Zathrian has not told you."

"Is that so?" Myranda said, crossing her arms over her chest. "Such as?"

"It was Zathrian who created the curse."

The Grey Warden's eyebrows shot up. "I beg your pardon?"

"Zathrian created the curse that these creatures suffer, the same curse that Zathrian's own people now suffer... and that your friend will suffer, if it is not ended."

Myranda looked at Leliana, who had a horrified look on her face and whose hand was drifting towards her wounded shoulder. "Explain... please," she added as the werewolves growled menacingly at her demanding tone.

"Centuries ago, when the Dalish first came to this land, a tribe of humans lived close to this forest. They sought to drive Dalish away. Zathrian was a young man then. He had a son and daughter he loved greatly. And while out hunting, the human tribe captured them both."

Swiftrunner interjected then, growling. "The humans... tortured the boy, killed him. The girl they raped and left for dead. The Dalish found her, but she learned later she was... with child. She... killed herself."

"How horrible," Wynne breathed.

"And so Zathrian cursed them, I take it?" Myranda said.

The werewolf nodded. "Zathrian came to this ruin and summoned a spirit, binding it to the body of a great wolf. So Witherfang came to be. Witherfang hunted the humans of the tribe. Many were killed, but others were... cursed by his blood, becoming twisted and... savage creatures."

"Twisted and savage just as Witherfang himself is," the Lady added.

"Deceit is the nature of men," Sten said.

"And not just humans," Myranda noted.

"They were driven into the forest," the spirit continued. "When the human tribe finally left for good, their cursed brethren remained, pitiful and mindless animals."

"Until I found you, my Lady," Swiftrunner said, kneeling at the spirit's feet and bowing his head until his nose almost touched the stone floor. "You gave me peace."

The Lady smiled a little, putting a twiggy hand on the werewolf's shoulder. "I showed Swiftrunner that there was another side to his bestial nature," she said to Myranda. "I soothed his rage, and his humanity emerged. And he brought others to me."

"Then why did you ambush the Dalish?" Myranda asked. "For revenge?"

"In part," the spirit conceded. "We seek to end the curse. The crimes committed against Zathrian's children were grave, but they were committed centuries ago by those who are long dead."

"If it was in the days of the old tribes," Alistair said, "I'd say that's almost assured."

"Word was sent to Zathrian every time the landships passed this way, asking him to come, but he has always ignored us." The Lady's dark eyes narrowed and her face grew dark. "We will no longer be denied."

Swiftrunner growled savagely. "We spread the curse to his people! So he must end the curse to save them!"

"Please, mortal," the Lady said, stepping forward and reaching out to place her hand on Myranda's shoulder, "you must go to him. Bring him here. If he sees these creatures, hears their plight, surely he will agree to end the curse!"

"I'm not sure that will be possible, Lady," Myranda said, though gently. "Why would he agree to come here alone?"

The spirit frowned. "If Zathrian comes, I shall summon Witherfang. I possess that power." She smiled then, secretively. "I also have the power to ensure Witherfang is never found."

The blonde lifted one eyebrow fractionally.

"Tell Zathrian this," the Lady said to her. "If he does not come, if he does not break the curse, he will never find Witherfang, and he will never cure his people."

"Very well," Myranda said. "I will go to Zathrian and tell him this."

"Then we shall await your return." She stepped back and gestured to her right. "Outside of this chamber, the passage leading back to the surface has been opened for you. Return with Zathrian as soon as you can."

The Grey Warden nodded and made for the indicated door, which was another secret door, opened by one of the werewolves. After receiving instructions on how to reopen the door, she passed through into a large receiving room, the tapestries on the walls moth-eaten and disintegrating. Myranda stepped off the dais—where a lord's chair would have stood—and made toward the door, this one real, on the other side of the room.

"Why do you agree to these things?" Morrigan questioned as they crossed the room toward the doorway on the far side. "You make yourself a glorified messenger. It is degrading."

"Zathrian lied to me," the blonde answered. "I do not tolerate liars."

"It is possible, of course, that the werewolves were lying," Zevran pointed out.

"Why? They want the curse ended. I'd suspect them more if they wanted us to kill the elves."

"Why lie about such a thing?" Leliana added. "I don't blame them for wanting the curse lifted... so do I!"

"I'm not about to let you become a werewolf," Myranda told her. "Look, all we can do is get Zathrian to face the werewolves and their Lady. If someone's not telling all, we'll know then." She reached for the door handle before jerking back with a loud screech, waving her hand wildly to dislodge the webs that clung to her fingers. "Curse this place!" she swore, scrubbing her hand against her leather armor. "I hope it crumbles to its foundations and kills every spider in Thedas!"

Alistair reached forward and pulled the door open, bowing to Myranda and gesturing for her to precede him out of the room. She looked at him with a small smile, lifting her hand to trace her fingertips along his cheek before stepping out of the room and starting up the long stairway. They emerged at the top to find themselves in the entry hall—coming from the long stairway that had been on their right when they had come in, with the magically sealed door.

When they stepped back outside, it surprised Myranda to find it only appeared to be late afternoon... and a figure was waiting for them.

Zathrian turned as they emerged from the ruin. "Ah," he said with a slight smile. "And here you are already."

Myranda managed to hold back the majority of her anger and let a sadistic smile cross her face. "Well, well," she said as Baby snarled at the keeper, "what do we have here?"

Morrigan laughed. "He wishes to see if we did his work for him." She smiled—a smile that was not unlike Myranda's in its underlying menace. "Is that not why you are here now, sorcerer?"

The elf's brows lowered. "Do not call me that, witch. I am keeper of this clan, and have done what I must."

"What are you doing here?" Leliana asked. "How did you get here?"

"You have carved a safe path through the forest," he said to the bard, "safe enough for me to follow, anyhow." He turned back to Myranda. "There was no way to tell what would happen once you reached this ruin, so I decided to come myself."

"I do not appreciate being given a task and then shadowed like a small child."

"It was not that I thought you _incapable_ of completing your task, Grey Warden," Zathrian said soothingly, with a smoothness that made her hackles rise.

"How did he manage to get through the barrier?" Alistair asked Myranda. "I thought it closed behind us?"

She waved this question away. "You just wanted to make sure I got the heart," she said viciously to the keeper.

"Just so," he said, ignoring or disregarding Myranda's anger. "Did you?"

"No," she said simply. "I didn't."

Zathrian blinked in surprise. "You didn't?" he repeated. "May I ask, then, why you are leaving the ruin?"

"We've been sent to bring you back to the Lady of the Forest," Leliana said.

The Dalish Keeper smirked at this. "Oh? Is that what the spirit calls herself now? And what does she want with me, if I might inquire?"

"She said to tell you she won't summon Witherfang unless you break the curse," Myranda said.

"The werewolves aren't just mindless animals anymore," Leliana added. "They want the curse broken, and the Lady wants you to come so she can summon Witherfang."

Zathrian looked at the redhead as if she was a particularly stupid child. "You _do_ understand that she actually _is_ Witherfang?"

"I assumed as much," Myranda said, "yes."

"She is the powerful spirit of this ancient forest that I summoned long ago and bound in the body of the wolf."

Myranda glanced at Zevran as this tidbit the spirit had mentioned was confirmed.

"Her nature is that of the forest itself: beautiful and terrible, serene and savage, maiden and beast. She is the Lady and Witherfang both, two sides of a single being."

"And you want me to get the heart of this spirit."

"So I can end the curse, yes."

"You realize spirits _have_ no hearts? I've gutted several, so I happen to know that for a fact."

Zathrian's face darkened. "The curse came first from her. Those she afflicted with it mirrored her own nature, becoming savage beast as well as human."

Myranda sneered. "The curse came from _you_ ," she spat. "And elves _do_ have hearts... though maybe not _you_."

"They attacked my clan and they were the same savages then that they have ever been. They deserve to be wiped out and not defended." He rolled his eyes when the blonde woman crossed her arms over her chest and set her jaw. "Come, I will accompany you back to the ruin. Let us go and speak to the spirit," he said with acidic affection before his tone changed again to be only acidic. "And then I will force her into Witherfang's form. He may then be slain and the heart taken."

"Won't you at least consider talking to them?" Leliana asked.

"Why?" the keeper challenged. "You claim they have regained their minds, but they are still savage beasts."

"They aren't the only ones, if you ask me," Myranda said.

"Their nature is unchanged," Zathrian said. "All they will want is revenge... or a release that I will not give them." He shook his head. "No! Let us take the heart and end it."

"We assure you," Alistair said, "the werewolves have regained their minds."

"Even so, they are still the same worthless creatures that their ancestors were. They deserve nothing more than the misery they possess." He glared at them. "This is not your battle, Grey Wardens. Let us just take the heart and be done with it."

"Do you still have so much hatred after all this time?" Wynne asked then, gently.

"You were not there!" Zathrian said coldly. "You did not see what... what-what they did to my son. To my daughter! And so many others." He looked around at them. "You are not Dalish," he sneered. "None of you are! How can you know how we had to struggle to be safe?"

"One does not need to be Dalish to know the struggle of survival," Zevran said, his tone low and dangerous.

The older elf ignored this. "How could I have let their crimes go unanswered?"

"They _have_ been answered," Myranda said before she gave an exasperated sigh. "At least meet with them; that's what I propose."

"And what if it is revenge they want, and not talk?" Zathrian asked. "Will _you_ safeguard me from harm?"

"Unless you attack first."

It was the keeper's turn to breathe a frustrated sigh. "I fail to see the purpose behind this," he said, "but very well. It has been many centuries now. Let us see what the spirit has to say."

 

 

The werewolves snapped and growled as the group and Zathrian re-entered the lycans' lair, causing the Lady to turn toward them. Zathrian smirked smugly at her, a look that told Myranda precisely how this meeting was going to go. "So here you are, spirit."

"She is the Lady of the Forest!" Swiftrunner snarled at him, charging toward him. "You will address her properly!"

"Be calm, Swiftrunner," the Lady said soothingly.

Swiftrunner glared at the elf a while longer before retreating back to his lady's side.

The keeper glanced at the beast before turning back to the Lady. "You've taken a name, spirit?" he asked mockingly. "And you've given names to your pets? These..." he waved his arm toward the werewolves, seemingly oblivious to the fact that they surrounded and outnumbered him, "these beasts who follow you?"

"It was they who gave _me_ a name, Zathrian," the Lady said calmly. "And the names they take are their own. They follow me because I help them to find who they are."

"Who they are has not changed from who their ancestors were." His face twisted into an ugly sneer. "Wild savages! Worthless dogs! Their twisted shape only mirrors their monstrous hearts!"

"Is it just me," Alistair murmured into Myranda's ear, "or is this not going well?"

"He's not even trying, the arrogant ass," she replied softly.

Swiftrunner growled furiously. "He will not help us, Lady!" he said. "It is as I warned you! He is not here to talk!"

"No," Zathrian said, "I am here to talk, though I see little point in it. We all know where this will lead. Your nature compels it, as does mine."

"It does not have to be that way," the Lady said, moving slowly toward him. "There is room in your heart for compassion, Zathrian." She reached out and put a twiggy hand on his shoulder. "Surely your retribution is spent."

"My retribution is eternal, spirit," he replied, brushing away her hand, "as is my pain. This is justice, no more."

"Are you _certain_ your pain is the only reason you will not end this curse?" the Lady asked, her tone carrying an underlying challenge. "Have you told the mortal how it was created?"

"He told me he summoned you and bound you to a wolf," Myranda said. "Though I begin to doubt his word on anything."

"And so he did," the Lady said.

"Convenient for him, then, that the Veil here is thin."

"This is an old forest, mortal, and I am its spirit, its heart. I was not summoned from across the Fade, but pulled from the rocks, the trees and the very soil. I was then bound into the body of the wolf who became Witherfang: not possessing a host like a sylvan or one of the undead, but bound into a single being. But such a process—such powerful magic—could not have been accomplished without Zathrian's blood... a great deal of his blood. The curse and his life... are intertwined."

"You used blood magic?" Wynne asked, horrified.

"How else was I to call the spirit?" he demanded. "It is old magic, to use the blood for power."

"Your people believe you have rediscovered the immortality of their ancestors, Zathrian," the Lady interjected, "but that is not true. So long as the curse exists, so do you."

"So you've lied to your own people," Myranda said with a sneer. "Disgusting."

"No!" Zathrian said. "That is _not_ how it is!"

The blonde woman's hand strayed toward the hilt of her sword. "Would Zathrian's death will end the curse?" she asked the spirit.

"No," she said simply. "The curse has a life of its own, though Zathrian's life depends on it. His death plays a part in its ending, however."

"Then we kill him!" Swiftrunner said, causing his brethren to howl in approval around them. "We tear him apart now!"

"For all your powers of speech, you are beasts still!" Zathrian said to the werewolf, arrogantly or stupidly oblivious to the numbers against him. "What would you gain from killing me? Only _I_ know how the ritual ends, and I will _never_ do it!"

"Not even to save your own people?" Myranda asked. "You would condemn them—and my friend, who was bitten trying to _help_ you—for your _vengeance_?"

"I warned you not to let yourselves be bitten," he said dismissively.

" _Let_ ourselves be bitten?" she repeated, enraged. "How _dare_ you!"

"You have not done as I asked," he said, turning to her. "If you retrieve Witherfang's heart, I will end the curse."

"Only for your own people... _if_ it's possible without your death. Which I doubt at this point."

"You believe these beasts over my word? Kill Witherfang, and I will stop this curse—for your friend as well as my clan."

"You see?" Swiftrunner said. "They mean to kill you, Lady! We must kill them all!"

"See?" Zathrian said to Myranda, looking and sounding for all the world like a petulant child as he waved his hand toward the werewolves. "They turn on you as quickly. Do what you have come here to do, Grey Warden, or get out of my way."

"You will not command me," Myranda said. "And you will end that curse if I have to force you myself!"

"We're standing for what's right, here," Alistair said. "No matter what."

"Shemlen!" Zathrian cursed them. "You will die with them! All of you will suffer as you deserve!" He lifted his staff and a loud, wooden creaking noise suddenly filled the room as the trees suddenly came to life, followed by a high-pitched shrieking by the two dozen wraiths that appeared from nowhere.

Myranda pulled the bow off her shoulder and quickly fired an arrow into Zathrian's foot to keep him from escaping as a large white wolf—Witherfang—appeared, howling before launching himself at one of the shrieks headed for the Grey Warden. Myranda saw the cruel smile settle on Zathrian's lips at the sight of the wolf and pulled another arrow from her quiver, ready to fire if he prepared to attack the spirit. And while he did start to lift his staff, he paused halfway through the movement... though apparently not of his own volition by the look of frustrated confusion on his face. And by the triumphant smirk that settled on Wynne's face, the elder mage must have had something to do with the keeper's paralysis.

The rest of the battle took next to no time with the werewolves helping in driving away the wraiths and taking down the wild sylvans.

"'Twould be best for you to look away, Myranda," Morrigan said, gathering power in her hands.

Myranda turned obediently away, burying her face against Alistair's neck and closing her eyes. She heard the growls of the werewolves and Zathrian's cry of surprised terror. A strange, morbid curiosity welled up from nowhere and she started to look up, but Alistair lifted his hand to her face, blocking her vision completely.

"Don't look," he murmured, holding her head against him as his other arm wrapped around her waist. "Trust me, you don't want to see."

She listened to the horrifying noises, trying not to imagine what was happening with the combination of clicks and what she could only describe as a slurping noise, whimpering and curling closer as Alistair's arm tightened around her. After several moments there was finally quiet, but Myranda didn't dare look up. Not until she heard Morrigan's voice.

"All right, before your moment becomes sickening enough to make one want to vomit."

Myranda couldn't help the smile that lifted the corners of her mouth as she lifted her head, noting how Alistair didn't release her. She looked back to find Morrigan was again herself, Witherfang had once more become the Lady of the Forest, and a cocoon lay on the space of floor Zathrian had once occupied. "Thank you for warning me before you changed," she said to the witch before turning to her fellow Warden. "And thank you for protecting me," she murmured.

"You're welcome," he replied softly, nuzzling her gently before releasing her again.

Myranda drew her sword as she walked over to the cocoon, cutting apart the threads around the Dalish Keeper's face to see him staring up at her in horror.

"No, no more," he said around his heavy panting breath. "Please, I... surrender."

"Forgive me if I don't immediately start cutting you loose," the blonde woman said.

"Though you could." He looked down at the floor. "I am... defeated. I... I cannot... cannot defeat you."

"Finish it!" Swiftrunner snarled, rushing toward the bound elf. "Kill him now!!"

"No!" Leliana cried. "Don't kill him! Please, Lady, stop him!"

"No, Swiftrunner," the Lady called in her soft voice, causing the werewolf to halt immediately. "We will not kill him. If there is no room in _our_ hearts for mercy, how may we expect there to be room in his?" She glided over toward the keeper and slit the spider silk apart, allowing Zathrian to stand—though he did so slowly.

"I cannot do as you ask, spirit," he said after several long moments. "I am too old to know mercy. All I see are the faces of my children... my people." He shook his head. "I... I cannot do it."

"You would let your clan die?" Myranda asked incredulously. "For _this_? Those who wronged you are _dead_ ; you've _had_ your revenge." She put her sword tip to his neck. "And you would have killed me—'punished' _me_ —for something that took place _Ages_ before I was _born_!?"

Zathrian looked at her for several long moments before he lowered his head. "Perhaps I have... lived too long," he finally admitted. "This hatred in me is like an ancient, gnarled root. It has consumed my soul." He lifted his eyes to the Lady. "And what of you, spirit?" he asked. "You are bound to the curse just as I am. Do you not fear your end?"

"You are my maker, Zathrian," she said with a slight, almost fond smile. "You gave me form and consciousness where none existed. I have known pain and love, hope and fear, all the joy that is life." Her smile faded then. "Yet of all things, I desire nothing more than an end. I beg you, maker... put an end to me." She gestured to the werewolves around her. " _We_ beg you... show mercy."

Myranda backed slowly away from the confrontation, stopping at the gentle touch of a hand on her arm.

Zathrian, meanwhile, looked long at the spirit of the forest before he sighed heavily, lowering his head. "You _shame_ me spirit," he said. "I am an old man, alive long past his time."

"Then you will do it?" the Lady asked in disbelief. "You'll end the curse?"

"Yes," the keeper said with another heavy sigh. "I think it is time. Let us... let us put an end to it all."

Myranda sheathed her sword and the hand at her elbow slid down her arm to gently take her hand.

"At least he's redeeming himself," Alistair murmured to her.

She nodded, interlacing their fingers as the werewolves gathered around their Lady. Swiftrunner reached for her, but the spirit put her hand on his paw and, lowering his head, he subsided. The Lady then looked at Zathrian and nodded, once. Zathrian closed his eyes and returned the nod, murmuring a few words and lifting his staff before striking it against the ground at his feet. A white light flashed around him before he collapsed to his knees, his body wavering for a few moments before collapsing to the floor, dead.

Green eyes turned then to the Lady of the Forest, who had lifted her hands to her mouth in a gesture of surprise. The otherworldly light that had flashed around Zathrian had, strangely, not dissipated, and now flowed through the air to surround the Lady. It wrapped around her like a cloak and her hands lowered from her mouth, her head tilting back as she seemed to bask in it. The light grew brighter and brighter until they all had to turn away to avoid being blinded.

When Myranda looked back toward the dais, the Lady was gone, as were the werewolves. Instead, a group of humans—men as well as women—was standing where the lycans had once been. They looked around at each other in stunned disbelief, alternately staring down at their bodies and reaching out to touch one another. She looked over at the bard, who was rubbing the shoulder where she'd been bitten. "Leliana?"

"It's gone," she said with a smile. "The burning's gone."

Myranda returned the smile before stepping toward one of the men on the dais: tall with long, chestnut hair. "Swiftrunner?" she asked.

He turned to her, and she was surprised she could recognize him even though he was no longer afflicted. "It's... it's over," he said to her. "The Lady's gone, and we're... we're human!" He laughed a little as if he didn't know what else to do. "I can scarcely believe it."

Myranda smiled. "So what are you going to do now?"

"We'll... leave the forest, I suppose," the man who had been Swiftrunner said with an uncertain shrug. "Find other humans... see what's out there for us." He looked at Myranda and smirked. "It should be quite interesting don't you think?"

"More than you realize," Alistair said, walking over to join Myranda.

"There is a Blight coming," Myranda said. "I'm sure you noticed the darkspawn in the forest, and their numbers will only continue to grow. I would go north to safety."

"Thank you," Swiftrunner said. "We... we'll never forget you." That said, he and the other newly-cured lycans made their way out of the ruin.

Myranda watched them go for a few minutes before a soft sigh escaped her. "Come on," she said to her party. "I suppose now we have to explain to the Dalish what happened to their keeper."

"I don't imagine that will go over so well," Zevran noted.

"I don't think so, either, but their own people who were suffering from the curse should also be cured, so maybe that will take out some of the sting of the loss." She led the way toward the door that would lead to the main entry hall. "Either way, let's get it over with."


	23. Missteps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party turns its steps toward Denerim, and a problem arises...

**Chapter 23: Missteps**

_"Jealousy is the fear of comparison." ~Max Frisch_

 

The last rays of the sun were just disappearing through the trees when the group trudged back into the Dalish camp. Lanaya was sent for as Myranda went about the unhappy business of informing Athras of Danyla's fate, and the young elf woman sat in private council with the party as they explained what had occurred during their forest trek. Myranda held nothing back, telling of the Lady of the Forest, of Zathrian's deception about his apparent immortality, and of how they convinced Zathrian to lift the curse. After nearly an hour, the elf woman sighed heavily.

"It is done, then," she said. "Though it is too bad that Zathrian had to die." She lowered her eyes. "I... I felt it, when he departed. I think he was ready to go."

Myranda frowned. "Did you know about his connection to the curse?" she asked gently.

Lanaya shook her head. "I suspected, but... Zathrian did not like to talk about that." She lifted her eyes again. "Nonetheless, the curse is over, and no one else will be subjected to it."

"Indeed."

"It will be difficult to fill Zathrian's shoes. He was our Keeper for many centuries and he will be sorely missed." The little elf woman straightened her shoulders and set her jaw, a familiar look of determination coming over her that made the corners of Myranda's lips lift slightly. "But I am Keeper now," she said. "Let me say it officially, then: I hereby swear to uphold the terms of the ancient contract our people formed with the Grey Wardens. Call and we shall come, with great speed and purpose, and we shall strike at your foes. This I swear."

"Thank you, Lanaya."

"It has been a long time since the Dalish marched to war," Lanaya mused, standing, "but I trust that, in the end, we shall make a difference for you."

"Of that I have no doubts," Myranda said with a smile as she stood as well, holding out her hand, which the elf woman took firmly.

"It is late, and there are still dangers in the forest though the werewolves have gone," the young elf said. "Will you stay as our guests?"

"We'd be honored to accept the hospitality of the Dalish," Myranda said with a bow. "Thank you."

They moved off to set up their camp—somewhat separated from the Dales so as not to seem too much like intruders—as Lanaya addressed her people. Afterward, the group was approached by several of the Dalish, mostly the young hunters who had been suffering the curse, who thanked them for ending it. Myranda spoke to a couple of the young women, and they escorted her to a nearby stream where she scrubbed away the sensation of being covered in bugs, along with the dirt and blood that had ground into her skin and hair. She also scrubbed her shirt and underclothes, which were stiff with sweat, and, after drying off, slipped her silk gown over her naked body, smiling as she remembered what had happened when she had last worn it. How surprised would Alistair be tonight when he discovered she wore nothing beneath it?

She returned to their campsite and thanked the young female hunters before she hung up her shirt outside and laid out her underclothes inside her tent to dry. She was greeted by Sarel when she exited her tent again. "Good evening, Sarel," she said with a courteous nod.

" _Andaran atish'an_ ," he said, returning her nod. He smiled then—though it was truly more of a smirk than anything. "You did it, outsider. You saved us from the ravages of the curse after all."

"You're welcome," she said, following as he gestured toward the main part of the Dalish camp.

"But Zathrian is lost to us, after all these centuries." He looked at her. "He died heroically, I hope?"

Myranda debated her answer for a moment before closing her eyes and nodding. "Yes," she said finally. "I believe he did."

"I'm glad to hear that," Sarel said. "I would like a happy ending to his tale."

"His was a noble death," she told him. "In the end, he died doing what was right."

"That is all a man could hope for. He will be a role model for many Dalish children to come."

Myranda hoped the storyteller would not pass along the lessons of Zathrian's extended vengeance, but she said nothing.

Sarel stopped by the camp's main fire, warming his hands for a moment. "Now Keeper Lanaya prepares for us to enter into war alongside the humans," he said with another smirk. "I never thought I'd live to see the day."

One of the young hunters spoke up then. "I, for one, look forward to fighting against these darkspawn creatures!"

Sarel and Myranda shared a soft laugh at the young man's enthusiasm. "Do you now?" the boy's clansman asked. "Let's hope you return and tell us all about them." He turned to Myranda then. "As for you, outsider... I expect I'll be telling tales about the Grey Warden one day, hmm?"

"I just hope they're flattering, even though I _am_ a human."

"I shall try not to let that blind me to the good of your exploits."

"Thank you, Sarel." She bowed to the group of elves before turning away. Zevran was at a nearby fire, chatting with one of the young elven women, who blushed and giggled occasionally, while Leliana was deep in conversation at another fire. Wynne was back at her knitting, speaking quietly with Lanaya. Sten seemed to be speaking occasionally to Baby, and, when he thought no one was watching, threw a stick for the dog to fetch. Morrigan sat by her tent, poring over her mother's grimoire. Alistair, she thought, had followed her example and had gone for a bath.

Leliana caught her eye and excused herself from her conversation with one of the cured hunters and walked over.

"I have been thinking about what happened to the elves," she said, "and I... am reminded of a song sung to me, many years ago."

"Yes?"

She lowered her eyes. "It was... when my mother died, and this wise elven woman comforted me and told me that we shouldn't fear death, or hate it." Her blue eyes lifted again. "Death is just another beginning," she said. "One day we must all shed our earthly bodies to allow our spirits to fly free."

Myranda looked away. "That _is_ comforting," she said softly. "Though I admit I'm not sure exactly how."

"It's a beautiful sentiment, I think—one that brings peace and hope to the grieving." She paused. "Shall I sing it for you?"

"That would be nice. Please."

Leliana smiled a little and excused herself to fetch her lute, setting up near their own campsite. She tuned the instrument for a few moments before plucking a simple melody. When she began to sing, it was with a soft conviction, making the tune sad, but in a strangely poignant way.

The smell of soap and cool dampness alerted her to Alistair's presence before she felt him wrapping his arms around her, hugging her gently from behind as he buried his nose into her hair. She leaned her head back against his shoulder as she listened to Leliana sing the beautifully haunting melody. She was vaguely aware of several of the Dalish elves approaching, quietly so as not to interrupt.

As the redhead's voice faded into the darkness and the last notes from her lute dissipated to nothingness, one of the elven young men spoke.

"I have never heard a _shem_... that is, a human... sing our funerary song," he said. "Though that was quite... lovely."

"Thank you," Leliana said humbly.

"Will you play something else?"

The bard thought for a moment, and then strummed a beautifully complex dance tune, which met with general approval as some of the young women improvised steps for it.

Myranda took Alistair's hand and turned in his arms, grinning at him. "Shall we start your lessons?" she asked.

"Not in front of everyone," he said, pushing a lock of hair back behind her ear before running his fingers through it. "And I thought we'd already started them."

Bright green eyes blinked in confusion before she giggled and tapped him on the nose. "Not _those_ lessons." She allowed a mysterious grin to cross her lips before she leaned over and whispered into his ear. The sound of his sharp intake of breath and how his arm tightened around her waist caused her to laugh softly.

"Myranda," Wynne said, walking over. "May I speak privately with you for a moment?"

"Of course." She squeezed Alistair's hand a little and winked at him before pulling away and walking with Wynne out of earshot. "What's on your mind?"

"I think I owe you an explanation for what happened in the forest. When I... collapsed."

"Ah, yes," the blonde young woman said. "Are you all right now? You had me quite worried."

"Your concern is appreciated. But you should know that... something happened to me at the tower, before you came along." She gestured for Myranda to sit before doing so herself. "Remember my apprentice, Kinnon? He encountered a demon in the tower. It would have killed him had I not intervened. I saved his life that day, but I did not survive that encounter with the demon."

Green eyes blinked in confusion. "I don't understand," she said. "You're sitting right here. How could you not have survived?"

Wynne held up one hand. "Let me explain fully," she said. "I engaged a very powerful demon to rescue Kinnon. It sapped me of all my energy and will, and left me drained. It took everything I had to defeat it, and when I was done I no longer had the strength to keep my heart beating." She looked up at the treetops above them, and the moon peeking through them. "I remember my life ebbing away; everything receded from me... sound, light... I remember being enveloped in complete, impenetrable darkness. And then..." her voice trailed off as if she was searching for the words to explain. "And then I sensed a presence, enfolding me and cradling me, whispering quietly to me. The sensation is impossible to describe."

Myranda sat silently, staring at the old woman in awed disbelief.

"I was being... held back, firmly, but gently, as a mother would a child eager to slip from her grasp." Wynne took a small breath before she continued. "I felt life and warmth flowing through my veins again. I began to be aware of small sounds, and the discomfort of my hip pressing into the cold stone of the tower floor."

"That's amazing," the Grey Warden said finally.

Wynne smiled at her. "The Fade contains spirits both benevolent and malicious. The benevolent spirits seldom make themselves known, because they want nothing from mortals, unlike the demons. It was one of these spirits that saved me. Without it, I would be dead. And it has not left me. It is with me, even now, bonded to me."

"Doesn't that make you an... an abomination?" Myranda asked hesitantly.

"I don't think so. You see, I am supposed to be dead. It is the spirit that is keeping me in this world, and this is not the way of things. Perhaps the spirit did not expect this but it is weakening, gradually. I am living on borrowed time."

"How long will the spirit last?"

The mage shrugged. "I do not know," she said simply. "I can feel when the spirit weakens, so I should have fair warning." She smiled then. "But come, let us not talk about this. There is time yet. And it will be nice not to have to worry about standing watch."

"Yes, another good night's sleep will do wonders for us all." She stood again and was suddenly very aware of how the silk felt against the bare flesh of her breasts and over her hips. "I think I'll turn in early, in fact."

"A wise idea for all of us, though I think I'm going to do one more row before bed," she said, looking at the knitting in her hand.

"What are you working on?"

"I was thinking of making it into a cloak for Sten," she said. "Ferelden is so much colder than his native country, and with winter coming, I wonder that he won't get cold."

"That will be nice. Though I'm sure he'll try to tell you it was 'unnecessary' or something."

"I'm certain of that," Wynne said with a small laugh. "But, come, off to bed with you."

Myranda smiled. "Good night, Wynne."

"Good night, dear."

 

 

Myranda sighed happily as she buried down into her pillow, smiling as she felt Alistair's fingers running idly through her hair, petting and caressing the soft, golden mass. At his insistence, she had left it down for the night, and now she understood why he had asked. "You like touching my hair, don't you?"

"It's the first time you've had it down for a while."

"Since before we got to Redcliffe."

"No, you had it down on the ship, too."

Myranda thought for a moment. "That's right, I did wash my hair that afternoon it rained." She looked back at him. "That afternoon I almost kissed you."

"And I almost kissed you."

"Mmm." She sighed, remembering how foolishly terrified she had been. "I was such a coward."

"We were both scared," Alistair told her. "It was so soon, after all."

"And I guess it doesn't matter now," she said. "We're together now… and I think we've made up for lost time." She wrinkled her nose in amusement as she added this last.

He smiled and kissed her shoulder. "I think so."

She smiled and laid her head back down. "Good night, Alistair," she murmured, snuggling back against him.

"Good night." Alistair felt an evil grin cross his face before he reached over and gently walked his fingertips up her side, barely brushing them against her skin. "The itsy, bitsy spider..." he began, but the children's tune was cut off when he was suddenly whapped in the face with her pillow.

"You...!" Myranda cried softly, hitting him with the pillow again and giggling. "You're terrible!"

He laughed and barely managed to avoid the third assault, grabbing her around the middle and causing her to drop the pillow. They wrestled playfully, laughing softly as they rolled back and forth—though Alistair finally won when he pinned down Myranda's wrists and rolled on top of her. They looked at each other and snickered before their lips met in a soft kiss. That kiss soon melted into a longer and deeper one... and then another and another. He released her wrists as his hands slid down her sides, moaning when she wrapped her arms around him to trace her fingertips over his back.

"I should... be punishing you... for teasing me..." Myranda managed between kisses.

"Is that so?" he asked with a grin. "I thought you told me... you liked to be teased."

"Yes, teased. Not tortured," she said, tickling him and giggling when he laughed.

"All right," Alistair managed around his laughter. "All right!" He caught her wrists again and grinned down at her, panting softly. Maker's breath, she was a stunning sight with her golden hair fanned out beneath her.

"So no more spider jokes?" she asked, lifting an eyebrow.

"No more spider jokes," he promised.

"Good." She leaned up and kissed him softly. "I'll be so happy when we get out of this damned forest."

"Don't worry, my dear. I'll protect you from the spider."

"What spider?" she asked, wide-eyed. "Where?!?"

"This one," he said before tickling his fingers over her sides, causing her to squeal and squirm.

"Alistair! I thought you said—stop!—no more..." her voice trailed off in a stream of giggles. She finally managed to grab his wrists, stopping the onslaught before she rolled on top of him. "You," she said around her soft panting, "are a very bad man."

"I've been trying to tell you," he said, grinning at her as she released his wrists before plunging his fingers back into her soft golden hair. "I'm sorry; I couldn't help it."

"I would think I'd have more to worry about from the snake."

Alistair frowned suddenly. "Snake?" he repeated.

"Yes," she said, rocking her hips and smiling when the action caused him to moan softly. "Snake."

"Oh... that one...."

"Mm hmm." She rocked her hips again slowly. "Shall I see what I can do with it?"

"I throw myself on your tender mercies, my dear."

 

 

_[Harvestmere 19 – Dawn]_

 

Though leaving Alistair's warmth was difficult, Myranda was up and out of the tent early the next morning. Despite the early hour, the Dalish camp was bustling with activity. A question to one of elves directed her to their weaponsmith, where she managed to acquire a new, stronger bow and made a few other small purchases. A giggle drew her attention to Zevran's tent, where a young woman was just exiting, smoothing her hair back and clearing her throat as she walked away. The assassin himself appeared a few minutes later, looking smug. Myranda glanced toward where the Dalish young woman had disappeared before looking back at him. "Seems _you_ had a good time last night."

"As did you, unless my ears were deceiving me."

"I doubt you heard anything over her screams. I'd be surprised if she didn't wake the whole camp."

He chuckled. "It is true... I did not expect her to be _quite_ so vocal, but such things are a pleasant surprise."

"I'm sure. I'm just glad you managed to control your assassin instincts."

"It was strange to make love to a woman who was not also a mark, to be sure." He sighed a little. "Ah, but she was marvelous."

"You can spare me the details," she said, holding up her hand. "I don't think I want to know."

"As you wish." He grinned at her. "You have found yourself a new bow, I see."

She smiled and reached over her shoulder to finger the top of the new bow. "Yes. Oh, that reminds me... here." She held out one of her other purchases to him: a pair of gloves made of soft, embroidered leather.

Zevran took them and looked at them in confusion. "Gloves? You're giving me gloves?" He looked up at her. "What for?"

"They're Dalish gloves," she said. "Like your mother's."

He blinked in surprise. "I..." his voice trailed off as he looked at them again, studying them more closely. "Maker's breath, you're right! They are like my mother's." He turned them over, running his fingertips over them. "The leather was less thick, and it had more embroidery... but these are very close. And quite handsome."

"You're welcome," she said with a slight laugh.

He lifted his eyes back to her. "Do I seem surprised?" he asked, smirking when she nodded. "Perhaps I am. Still, I appreciate the fact that you even thought of me. No one has simply... given me a gift before. Thank you."

"Well, I figure I should thank you for not putting a knife in my back," she said teasingly.

"It would be regrettable at this point," he said, returning her grin. "You must at least allow me to make love to you first."

"I don't think so," she said before patting him on the shoulder and heading back toward her tent, where Alistair was up, dressed, and watching her.

"What was that?" he asked when she was close enough.

"I was just giving him a little gift I picked up."

"Why?"

Myranda blinked at him. "Why, to win him over, of course. I figure the more he likes me, the less likely his murdering us in our sleep becomes."

He couldn't fault this logic, but there was something about it he just didn't like.

The group said their final goodbyes to Lanaya and her people and started north toward the capital. They traveled most of the day without incident aside from a few groups of darkspawn, avoiding areas that were obviously overrun by massive spider webs.

That night after supper, Myranda looked up, startled, as Morrigan walked into the main camp.

"I have been studying Mother's grimoire," she said. "Do you wish to hear what I have found?"

"Certainly." Myranda gestured toward Morrigan's camp. "What did you find?" she asked as they walked toward the small site.

"'Tis... not what I expected. I had hoped for a collection of her spells, a map of the power that she commands. But this is not it."

Myranda's brow furrowed in confusion. "Yet you look disturbed." She'd never seen such an expression on the other woman's face before. Had it been anyone else, she would have called it fear.

"' _Disturbed_ '?" the witch repeated indignantly before she looked away. "Yes... perhaps that is the right word. One thing in particular within her writings disturbs me." She motioned absently toward a stone, inviting the other woman to sit as she retrieved the book. "Here," she said, flipping to a page near the middle, "in great detail, Flemeth explains the means by which she has survived for centuries."

"A spell of immortality?"

Morrigan sighed softly. "If only 'twere so." She shook her head a little. "Flemeth has raised many daughters over her long lifetime. There are stories of these many Witches of the Wilds throughout Chasind legend, yet I have never seen a one and always wondered why not. And now I know. They are all _Flemeth_."

Myranda's green eyes widened in shock. "What?"

"When her body becomes old and wizened, she raises a daughter. And when the time is right, she takes her daughter's body for her own."

Myranda looked at the young witch, scarcely believing her ears. "Are you certain about this?"

"Indeed," Morrigan said with a nod. "That is primarily what this tome details. The various daughters that Flemeth has... acquired. Their preparation and training." She sat on a nearby stump, gazing down at the book in her hands. "I recognize all of it. I... am to be her next host. This is my purpose."

The two women sat quietly for a moment before the Grey Warden spoke. "I don't understand. If what she has planned is to... why would she risk sending you with me?"

"I do not know," the other woman admitted. "Perhaps 'tis as she said: the darkspawn threaten her as much as they threaten anyone else. Or perhaps she believes that this journey will make me more powerful. According to the tome, if the... host... is already powerful and trained in magic, it takes far less time for Flemeth to... settle in."

Green eyes lifted. "So what do you intend to do about it?"

"There is only one possible response to this," Morrigan said. "Flemeth needs to die." She pursed her lips, visibly settling into a more comfortable emotion: anger. "I will not sit about like an empty sack waiting to be filled. Flemeth must be slain and I need your help to do it."

Myranda was surprised by this. "Why do you need my help?" she asked.

"Because if she is slain while I am near, I am not certain that she will not simply be able to take possession of me right there," the witch said. "So obviously I cannot be the one to do it." When the shocked wariness didn't leave the Grey Warden's face, she continued. "I know my mother well enough to be confident she would show no mercy when it came to her own survival. I must do the same."

The blonde nodded. "Very well. I'll help you, if I can."

"Then what needs to be done is for you to go back to Flemeth's hut in the Korcari Wilds without me. Confront her and slay her quickly. I doubt she will truly be dead even then, but it will take her years to find a new host and recover her power, if that is even possible."

"Do you think it's possible?"

"I do not know," Morrigan admitted. "The thing I must have is her _true_ grimoire. With it I can defend against her power in the future. Everything else in her hut is yours."

Myranda nodded again. "I'll see what I can do," she promised.

Morrigan smiled a little. "I am grateful. The sooner this can be done, the sooner it will set my mind at ease."

"As soon as I think we can take out the old woman, we'll do so."

"Do not underestimate her, Myranda," Morrigan warned. "She has much power."

"I know. Thus why I'm not going to backtrack now. She'd kill us all. She may yet do that, but I'll feel better if we're all a little stronger." She stood and offered her good nights before wandering back toward the main camp, wondering how in Andraste's name they were going to kill the fabled Witch of the Wilds.

Hearing a soft strumming, she looked up to see Leliana had pulled out her lute and was toying with the pegs at the top as she tried to get the instrument back in tune. "Leliana?" she called. "Something slow... in a waltz rhythm?"

"Certainly!" the redhead called back, strumming a simple waltz.

"Alistair," Myranda said, taking his hand.

"My dear?"

"Come here."

"Where are we going?"

"I told you I would teach you how to dance," she said, grinning at him. "Now's as good a time as any."

He sighed a little. "All right. Can I apologize now for stepping on your feet?"

She giggled. "You'll be fine."

"How do we start?"

She grinned and took his right hand and placed it on her waist. "This hand here," she said. "And take my right in your left." She held his hand gently as her left arm wrapped around his shoulders. "A waltz is in three... just remember: one, two, three... one, two three." She guided him slowly through the basic steps, counting out the beats, until he had them down before adding in a few complex turns. As always he was an attentive student, and learned quickly, though he did step on her toes a few times.

"May I?" Zevran asked at one point. "It may help to watch someone else."

"He has a point," Myranda said. "That may help."

Alistair frowned but submitted to Myranda's judgment.

The blonde woman gave the elf a hard look and pointed at him. "No funny stuff," she said.

Zevran held his hands out and bowed deeply. "I shall be a perfect gentleman, my dear Warden. Unless you ask me to be otherwise."

They swirled around the camp, and Myranda was pleasantly surprised that Zevran was an excellent dancer. She smiled and said as much to him and was answered by a mysterious and charming grin.

"There are a great many things you do not know about me."

He dipped her backwards before pulling her up and sending her twirling away into Alistair's arms as Leliana ended the tune, grinning at them both. "Dancing is like making love, my friend," he said. "If you have good rhythm, your partner will be left breathless and aching for more."

"Oh, my," Myranda breathed, bringing a hand to her chest.

Alistair wrapped his arm around Myranda's waist, a sour expression on his face.

"That's... I think if we just get the basics tonight, that will be all right," Myranda said, clearing her throat.

They worked on the basic waltz for a while longer until Myranda called an end to the lesson, pulling Alistair away for a short walk. She threaded her hand into the crook of his elbow when they were out of sight of the others, hugging his arm. "What's the matter, darling?"

"I feel like I did everything wrong."

"You were just nervous," she said. "You did well."

"Really?"

"Have I ever lied to you about your abilities?" she asked, pulling him to a stop and tapping him on the nose.

"Not that I know of."

"I never have," she murmured. "And you did better than Fergus. I couldn't _walk_ after his first lesson. But I wonder if part of it was he didn't want to dance with me." She moved to hug him.

He smiled a little. "I don't think I'll have that problem," he murmured into her ear.

Myranda laughed softly and snuggled closer to him. "Morrigan's asked us to do something for her," she said, suddenly remembering the favor the witch had asked.

"Oh really?" Alistair asked flatly. "Is there some kitten she wants us to drown?"

"Actually, you may like this. She wants us to kill Flemeth."

" _What_?!" he repeated, pulling away a little at staring at her as if she was mad. " _Kill_ Flemeth? The Witch of the Wilds?" He watched in disbelief as she nodded. "And how are we supposed to do that? Ride in on our griffons and throw lightning bolts at her, I suppose."

"Her body is mortal—she can be killed. And if we don't, she'll possess Morrigan before her current body dies."

"Did _she_ tell you that? How do you know she isn't lying just to get us killed?"

"Why lie about such a thing? And if she was going to kill us, she would have done so _long_ before now." She looked at him then. "Come now, Alistair, would you rather deal with Morrigan or Flemeth _as_ Morrigan?" She waited as several long, quiet moments passed. "Alistair?"

"Hold on... I'm thinking."

"Alistair..."

He sighed. "Must we?"

"I want to do this for her. I know you don't like her, but she's my friend. I don't relish the thought of her being possessed by that evil old hag."

He sighed again, this time in defeat. "All right, all right."

"Thank you, my love." She leaned over to kiss him gently—a kiss that was quickly returned—reveling in it as if it were the first time, as she always did. Maker, his kiss was sweeter than the best Orlesian confections and more intoxicating than the finest wine. Several minutes or hours went by with them lost in each other—she didn't know and didn't _care_ which—until he finally pulled away from her. Myranda kept her eyes closed, savoring the taste a while longer before opening her eyes to smile at him. "Do you want me to sit up with you for your half of the watch?" she murmured.

"You don't have to do that."

"I know I don't have to."

He smiled and kissed her on the forehead. "No, get some sleep. We had a late night last night."

"Mmmm... but it was such fun..." she said with a wink. "But, if you insist." She kissed him softly. "I'll keep the bed warm for you."

"And... in the morning...?" he asked with a grin.

She giggled and kissed him again. "Yes... in the morning. If not later tonight."

They walked slowly back into the camp, pausing in the shadows of their tent to share one last, slow kiss before he turned and walked back to the fire. Myranda stood in the shadows for a few more moments, watching him go and sighing happily. Sweet, blessed Andraste, she loved him so much....

"You're quite taken with each other, aren't you?"

Myranda looked over at Wynne and smiled dreamily. "Yes," she said. "Quite."

"I've noticed your blossoming relationship," the older woman said, "and I wanted to ask you where you thought it was going."

The smile started to fade from the blonde's lips then. "What do you mean?"

"Alistair is a fine lad, skilled in battle, but quite inexperienced when it comes to affairs of the heart. I would hate to see him get hurt."

"Are you saying I'm going to hurt Alistair?" she demanded.

"Not intentionally, no," the mage said soothingly. "But there is great potential for tragedy here, for one or both of you. You are both Grey Wardens, and he is the son of a king."

Myranda's eyes widened in shock. "How do you know that?" she whispered.

"I can see it... his resemblance to Cailan and Maric before him. Regardless, you both have responsibilities which supersede your personal desires."

"But Alistair doesn't want to be king."

Wynne pursed her lips slightly. "That may be true," she conceded, "but he is still a Grey Warden."

"So am I."

The mage sighed softly. "Love is ultimately selfish," she said. "It demands that one be devoted to a single person, who may fully occupy one's mind and heart, to the exclusion of all else." She lifted her grey eyes to Myranda's green ones, so there would be no misunderstanding. "A Grey Warden cannot afford to be selfish. You may be forced to make a choice between saving your love and saving everyone else, and then what would you do?"

Myranda looked over to where Alistair sat by the campfire. The thought that he, too, could be taken from her—and that she would have to _choose_ to lose him—ripped the breath from her lungs and tore open her heart. Maker's breath, what would she do if he was taken from her? He'd given her back her humanity, confided in her, loved her, and given her something she would treasure to the end of her days. To lose him after losing everyone else dear to her... "I don't want to have to make that choice," she whispered as she looked back at the older woman, fighting back the frightened tears that threatened to overtake her.

"Nothing is certain," Wynne said soothingly, "not in these times. You cannot take anything for granted. I want you to be aware of this. I am just trying to minimize the suffering that may come to either of you."

The blonde young woman lowered her eyes to the ground, bowing her head slightly. "I'll consider what you have said."

"I have given my advice. Do with it what you will."

Myranda ducked into her tent—hers and Alistair's—and sat on the bedroll, clutching his pillow to her chest. But his scent failed to soothe her. Thoughts and fears chased themselves around in her mind, assurances that failed to comfort preceding uncontrollable doubt. And over it all, Wynne's gentle and reasonable voice:

_"You may be forced to make a choice between saving your love and saving everyone else, and then what would you do?"_

What _would_ she do? Oh, Maker, it didn't bear thinking about, but she truly had no choice now.

Baby walked into the tent and whined at her, padding over and pawing her.

"What do I do, Baby?" she whispered. "Is she right? Am I being selfish, neglecting my duty for the sake of my own happiness?"

The mabari whined again.

"But I love him," she said. "I love him so much... and I can't just _stop_ loving him. Love isn't like a candle."

Baby barked conversationally.

She took a deep breath. "Yes... there's no need for this. I'm not neglecting my duty. I'm not going to hurt him, and I daresay he doesn't know how to hurt me. What could possibly—" She slapped a hand over her mouth as she realized what she was saying.

_"What could possibly go wrong?"_

She knew all too well the answer to that. She had been so happy... _blissfully_ happy... but the last time she had felt this way tragedy had struck to her core, taking everyone she loved from her. Baby was all she had left. She had fallen into a stoic despair then—a despair that Alistair had helped her climb out of. She had warmed her frozen heart by his friendship, wrapped herself in his love and curled into a comfortable corner of his heart. But with the warmth and shelter she had found in him, she had grown mindless to her continued vulnerability—to the wolves of madness and melancholy that circled, waiting for a chance to strike.

_"Any of us could die in battle."_

The sentence was suddenly malicious: a cold reminder that Alistair, too, could share the fate of the other Wardens. And if he died... A cold hand gripped the base of her spine and she shivered, staring at her mabari in partial horror. "Oh, Baby," she whispered. "What have I done? I've set myself up to be hurt again. I let myself go too far. Oh... oh, no... _no_..." She buried her face into the pillow to muffle her sobs as Baby whined and pawed at her, licking her in an attempt to comfort her.

She was still awake, laying on her side facing away from the entrance, when Alistair came in at midnight, though she pretended to be asleep. She listened to the clinking of his sword belt followed by the soft rustling of clothing before he slid into the bedroll with her. Her eyes squeezed shut as his arm wrapped around her waist and he leaned over to kiss her cheek.

"Good night, my love," he whispered into her ear before laying down and nuzzling the back of her neck.

Myranda opened her eyes, debating telling him what Wynne had said. But she said nothing, only lay still until she heard his breathing deepen, indicating that he was asleep. There was so much comfort for her in that sound alone... and it frightened her. She closed her eyes against the tears that once again welled there, trying not to tremble as she sobbed silently.

 

 

_[Harvestmere 20 – Dawn]_

 

Myranda was still awake when the birds began their morning chorus. She started to get up, but the arm around her waist suddenly tightened, pulling her back against a warm body.

"Good morning," Alistair murmured, his voice pitched slightly lower and slurred with sleep.

"Good morning," she repeated, though she was doubting the 'good' part. She felt dreadful: her stomach was halfway to a riot and her eyes burned from crying. She suppressed the urge to flinch when he kissed her shoulder.

"What's wrong?" he asked, trailing kisses along her shoulder to her neck. "You seemed so eager last night."

"I... just... I just don't feel very well."

Alistair was awake in an instant. "What's the matter? Are you sick?"

"No, no. I'm fine. I just... didn't sleep very well."

"Do I need to go tell Wynne?"

"No!" She rolled over and grabbed his arm, regretting it immediately when the shocked look crossed his features.

"What's happened, Myranda?" he asked, startled by how pale she looked, except for around her eyes, which were red from crying. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing... nothing, I'm fine." She looked at him imploringly. "Please," she said. "It's nothing... I promise: I'm fine." She forced herself to smile, but he looked unconvinced. "Please," she said again.

He sighed. "All right," he said at last. "If you're sure."

"I am. Don't worry... everything's fine."

But Alistair wasn't convinced. He was even less convinced when she was sick later that morning. And though Leliana went to comfort and check on her, she returned with no insight as to what was troubling the blonde woman. Myranda, however, continued to insist that she was fine.

He kept a sharp eye on her the rest of the day, but, as she had claimed, nothing appeared to be wrong with her physically. She glanced back at him occasionally and offered him wan smiles each time, which did nothing to set his mind at ease.

Myranda felt his eyes on her back all day. He was worried about her. Of course he was. But how could she tell him and make him understand without hurting him? She didn't know why she had been ill that morning... it had to have been because she had been so upset and crying the night before. The only other explanation was... well, not completely unlikely, but doubtful. She would _know_ if that were the case... wouldn't she? By evening she decided to put it out of her mind.

"Will you tell me a little about Antiva?" Myranda asked Zevran that night after supper.

The elf looked at her in slight surprise. "Oh? You wish to know about Antiva, do you?"

"If you don't mind telling me."

"Well, the only way to truly appreciate it would be to go there," he said, waving for her to sit by him—an invitation she accepted. "It is a warm place, not cold and harsh like this Ferelden. In Antiva it rains often, but the flowers are always in bloom..." he allowed his voice to trail off on this romantic image before shrugging. "Or so the saying goes."

"You don't like Ferelden?"

Zevran waved a dismissive hand. "It is fine enough with its dogs and its mud. The people are spirited... even if they can't tell the difference between an assassin and a mere killer." He scowled slightly before continuing. "I hail from the glorious Antiva City, home to the royal palace. It is a glittering gem amidst the sand, my Antiva City." He looked at her. "Do you come from someplace comparable?"

"I was born in Highever, in the north," she said.

"Oh? I have never seen that place."

Myranda shrugged. "I don't know that it's a 'glittering gem,' but it's probably the largest city on the north coast."

"I am sure it has its charms. And its dogs," he added with a chuckle as Baby padded over to them and nosed his mistress.

"Baby was the only mabari in Highever, as far as I know." Myranda smiled and rubbed the dog affectionately. "He's my good boy, aren't you? Yes, you're my good boy!"

Baby barked and wagged his stubby tail, licking his mistress under the chin.

Zevran chuckled at this affectionate display. "You know what is most odd?" he asked after a moment's musing, causing the blonde woman to look back at him. "We speak of my homeland, and for all its wine and its dark-haired beauties and the lillo flutes of the minstrels... I miss the leather the most."

Myranda lifted an eyebrow at him. "Is that some kind of euphemism?"

He laughed then, full and deeply, and Myranda found it quite pleasant to hear. "It may as well be!" he said. He lifted a hand to wave it away then. "But not this once, no." His eyes lit up then. "I mean the _smell_. For years I lived in a tiny apartment near Antiva City's leather-making district, in a building where the Crows stored their youngest recruits." His smile dropped into a slight sneer. "Packed in like crates," he muttered.

Myranda watched him, intrigued by this insight.

"I grew accustomed to the stench," he continued after a moment, "even though the humans complained of it constantly. To this day the smell of fresh leather is what reminds me most of home more than anything else."

"You sound like you've been away from home forever," she said gently.

"Oh, not so long, I know," he sighed. "It is my first time away from Antiva, however, and the thought of never returning makes me think of it constantly."

"I understand."

He looked at her and a slight smile lifted the corners of his lips. "Before I left, I was tempted to spend what little coin I possessed on leather boots I spotted in a store window." He looked off into the distance reaching out with one hand as if to touch the boots. "Finest Antivan leather, perfect craftsmanship..." He dropped his hand and shook his head regretfully. "Ah, but I was a _fool_ to leave them," he said wistfully, almost to himself. "I thought, 'Ah, Zevran, you can buy them when you return as a reward for a job well done!'" He looked back at her again. "More the fool I, no?"

"Your home is still there, Zevran," she told him. "You could still go back for those boots if you really wanted them."

"True, and it's a comforting thought." He shrugged then. "One simply never knows what is to come next," he went on. "How could I have suspected I would end up defeated by a beautiful Grey Warden, a woman who then spares my life? I could not."

Myranda smirked at him. "You're trying to flatter me again."

Zevran lifted an eyebrow at this. "I say you are beautiful because it is true. Should I not?"

There were many undercurrents beneath his question, every one of them sincere, and Myranda caught them all. Oh, this one was _good_. "No," she said slowly, letting a smile play across her lips, "by all means."

He returned her smile. "And glad I am to hear it," he said. There was a long moment of silence where they simply looked at each other before Zevran spoke again. "Now, if it is all the same to you, I would prefer not to speak more of Antiva. It makes me wistful and hungry for a proper meal."

"Supper hasn't agreed with you?"

"You Fereldans are backwards in so many ways," Zevran said, making a face. "Unfortunately your culinary skills are among them."

"Just be glad Leliana does the cooking and not me or Alistair."

"You are trying to tell me to take small victories?"

"You could say that."

"Hm. I will have to consider this."

Myranda smiled and laughed softly. "Good night, Zevran," she said, walking toward her tent, where Alistair was waiting for her.

"What were you two talking about?" he asked as he followed her into the tent.

"Oh, he was just telling me a little about Antiva," she said. "That's all."

He frowned, watching her for a moment. "Are you feeling all right?"

"Yes, Alistair, I'm fine. I told you, I think I was just stressed this morning. The past few days have been rather tense, you know." She looked at him and smiled a little, lifting her hand to his cheek. "You worry too much," she said gently. "And that will age you faster than the taint."

"I worry about you," he said, pulling her into his arms.

She hesitated then returned the embrace, holding him tightly. Oh, what was she going to _do_? How could she love him so much? He kissed her then and she returned it almost desperately. Her heart squeezed painfully in her chest as she tried to lose herself in him, but a little voice in the back of her mind—admonishing her for being selfish—kept her from doing so. She caught his wrists when his hands started to roam over her body, keeping her eyes lowered as she gently broke the kiss.

"I'm tired," she said. "I didn't sleep very well last night and I know you had a late night." She looked at him. "Another night?" she asked.

Alistair nodded. "Another night," he agreed. But later that night, as he lay holding her gently as she slept, he couldn't help wondering if there was another reason... one that she wasn't telling him.

 

 

_[Harvestmere 22 – Midday]_

 

"You must have quite a history," Myranda said to Zevran as they wandered down the road. "With women, I mean."

The elf looked up at her, somewhat wary. "This could be a sensitive topic, my dear lady," he told her. "Are you sure you wish to voyage there?"

She shrugged. "I asked, didn't I?"

"As you wish," he said, bowing his head. "Let me start by saying that my history is varied, indeed. It has also not been restricted to women." He looked at her again. "Does... that offend you?"

She lifted an eyebrow. "Should it?"

"Perhaps. That is entirely up to you."

"I know some young noblemen who have similar... interests." She made a slight face. "I can't say I see the appeal, myself. I don't know that I'd enjoy sex with another woman." She looked at him. "Is it really as good for men to be with another man?"

"I grew up amongst whores, my dear," Zevran said. "Sex is best when done well, and truly that is my only rule. Do I prefer women?" He thought about this question for a moment. "Yes... yes, I believe I do, but you must understand that a certain open-mindedness is sought by the Crows in their recruits. For very good reasons."

"I see," she said. "I think."

"This is a new path I am on now... it would be interesting to see where it leads." He looked at her. "Already it has been many new things."

She lifted an eyebrow at the look in his eye.

"I cannot change my past, obviously. I regret far more than the men and women I have been with, and if that is more than you can bear... well, then it is good we know now, yes?"

"We all have a past, don't we?"

"Just so, just so," he said with an approving nod. "Ahhh, enough talk of the past. It is what lies ahead that is important, no?"

"True." She smiled a little and trotted up the path to catch up with Leliana, starting up a lively conversation with her.

Zevran watched her walk away, a slight smile curling his lips.

"So let me ask you something," Alistair said coldly. "What are your intentions with her?"

"With who?" the elf asked innocently.

"Don't play dumb, you know who I'm talking about. Myranda."

"You speak of her as if she is not present," Zevran chided. "She is just right over there, you know."

"Don't dodge the question. I'm serious."

The assassin grinned. "Do I detect a bit of jealousy there? Feeling... territorial, are we?"

Alistair scowled at him. "I am just asking what your intentions are. You did try to kill us all, remember?"

"And now I owe her a blood debt, as she has spared my life. It has brought us..." his grin widened "closer together."

"Is that a smirk? Are you smirking at me?"

Zevran held up his hands in a show of surrender, still grinning at the other man. "I assure you, ser, that I am not smirking. No smirking here, no."

Alistair frowned. "Well, just... watch yourself, then. I'll be keeping an eye on you."

 

 

_[Harvestmere 25 – Evening]_

 

"I have a question for you, my dear Myranda," Zevran said, taking her arm and steering her away from the campfire so they could talk more privately. "How well-versed are you in poetry? Antivan poetry specifically."

The blonde woman shrugged. "I know good poem when I hear it."

"A-ha! Well trust me, then, you won't be hearing it now."

Myranda giggled a little at this.

"It was recited to me, as I recall, by a rather wealthy target of mine. Let's see..." He cleared his throat and looked away, recalling the words "'Songs of hot breath upon my neck, / Songs of soft sighs by my head, / Songs of nails upon my back, / Songs of thee... come to my bed.'"

Myranda blinked and felt a faint blush color her cheeks. "Oh, dear..."

"Oh, I know, I know," Zevran said with a slight laugh, waving a hand as if dismissing the words. "I couldn't believe that she thought this would actually convince me to spare her." He shrugged. "I had sex with her anyway, but that goes without saying. She still had to die. The poem was amusing at the time, however, and thus I've always remembered it."

"You killed her anyway?" she asked, startled.

The elf looked surprised by her shock. "Well, yes, but after we made love. What do you think I am, some kind of monster?"

Myranda smiled and shook her head in disbelief, fighting the giggle that rose in her throat.

"It's not as if she didn't enjoy herself," Zevran continued. "Certainly there are much less pleasant ways to spend your last hours, no?"

"You are a saint amongst men, Zevran."

"You know, I kept telling the other Crows that, and yet they never felt the same way."

Myranda laughed at that, fully and deeply.

 

 

Alistair, hearing the sound, looked over to find Myranda and Zevran engaged in a lively conversation. He frowned, a familiar vicious irritation searing through his veins at the sight. "So I'm wondering something," he said suddenly to Leliana, "what _exactly_ would a woman _see_ in a man like _Zevran_?" He tried not to let too much contempt drip from his voice as he said the name of their newest companion, but failed for the most part.

The redhead was surprised by this malicious question and the amount of venom in the Grey Warden's voice. "Oh, he's handsome enough for some," she said noncommittally. "Why do you ask?"

"No reason," he said innocently. "It's just... doesn't he seem to be a bit too much? The hair, the _clothing_..."

"I don't understand," the bard said. "A bit too much _what_?" She lifted an eyebrow at him. "Do you have a problem with him?"

"Beyond the fact that he's an _assassin_ who's tried to kill us more than once, _no_ , no, not really." There was no hiding the bitter sarcasm. He glanced back at Myranda when he heard her giggling again. "Do women go for that sort of thing?" he asked, suddenly worried.

Leliana laughed a little, softly. "Where I come from they do," she said. "Oh, _yes_."

"Huh," he muttered. "Really. I see."

"You do not think that Myranda is interested in him, do you?"

"No... no, of course not." There was another long pause. "Do you?"

Leliana looked over at Myranda and Zevran when another giggle tumbled through the air. "I don't believe so," she said after a few moments.

But there was an uncertainty in her tone that Alistair couldn't ignore. And so he watched. And seethed.


	24. Denerim Disasters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Myranda and Alistair sneak into Denerim and have a rough time of it.

**Chapter 24: Denerim Disasters**

_Jealousy would be far less torturous if we understood that love is a passion entirely unrelated to our merits. ~Paul Eldridge_

 

The first day of Firstfall dawned clear and cold, with a promise of snow within the fortnight. Myranda stood on the edge of the small woodland, frowning. The city gate before her was a dark, imposing sight, guarded and watched from the parapets high on the walls. The only color came from the banners streaming from the top of the wall bearing the yellow wyvern that adorned crest of the teyrnir of Gwaren. "You'd never know it was the middle of Satinalia," she said.

"I think Loghain's outlawed happiness," Alistair said.

"Certainly looks that way."

"It's a good thing he hasn't caught us yet," he said with a slight smile.

She looked over at him and smiled a little before looking back down at the city. "How do we get in? We can't very well just walk in through the main gate."

He sighed. "I don't know. You could probably scale the wall, but I'd never make it."

"I'm a noblewoman, Alistair, not a thief. I don't think I could scale that wall without a rope... and even then it would be iffy, especially with all the guards."

"So what do we do?"

Myranda pursed her lips before turning back toward the main camp. "We have a problem," she announced to the group. "We must get into Denerim, but we can't all go: we'll be noticed. Some of us will stick out," she said, glancing at Sten, "and the Grey Wardens—that is, Alistair and I—have a price on our heads." She glanced at Zevran. "Everyone in the city would recognize us."

"Perhaps not everyone," Zevran said. "But a vast majority to be certain."

"Regardless, the fact remains that Alistair and I can't go in as we are."

"Couldn't one of us go in to see Brother Genitivi?" Wynne offered.

"No. We have something else to do in the city," she said, looking over at Alistair and smiling a little. "We have to go, but how do we get in?"

"Go as someone else."

Myranda looked over at the bard. "I beg your pardon?"

"If you cannot go as yourselves, go as someone else," Leliana said. "Disguise yourselves."

"How? As _what_? Chantry sister and templar? We couldn't go as anything else."

"Allow me," Leliana said. "I'll go in and find something for you. May I borrow your gown, Myranda?"

 

It was late afternoon before Leliana returned with several wrapped parcels. Myranda had been pacing furiously and nearly pounced on the bard when she walked back into camp. "Well?" she demanded.

"These are for you," she said, handing her four of the packages. She handed the other three to Alistair.

"What did you come up with?" Alistair asked.

"And why is this purse so much lighter than when I gave it to you?" Myranda added, weighing it in her hand. It was less than half as heavy as it had been before the bard's shopping spree.

"I'm afraid I couldn't come up with anything elaborate," the redhead apologized. "The only thing I could come up with from the selections available was a pair of nobles escaping the Blight... and such clothes are costly—unnecessarily so. I haggled as best I could."

"Oh... it's all right," Myranda said, ripping into the largest package. "The ease of the disguise may make up for it. I know how to act like a noblewoman. I'm not sure I could be anything else." She pulled the top off of the box to find a beautiful hooded cloak made of wool the same color as a dove's wing and lined with white fur—fox, by the feel. "Oh, what a _beautiful_ cloak!" she gushed, picking it up and wrapping it around her shoulders, snuggling her face into the fur. "I'll appreciate this in the coming months, I'm sure." She opened the next parcel, frowning as she saw the pretty claret red wool gown inside. She looked over at Alistair to see him with a dark blue shirt that shimmered slightly in such a way that bespoke of fine velvet. "You... _do_ realize we would be in mourning, Leliana, right?"

Bright blue eyes blinked. "What?"

"Our king is _dead_. We would still be mourning that fact." She watched the horrified look cross Leliana's face.

" _That's_ why there was so much black! Oh, I feel awful! Why didn't I think of that?"

"Never mind," Myranda said with a sigh. "I'll think of something." She stood and picked up the red dress, her frown deepening as she held it up. While it was the right length, there was enough fabric in the middle to go around her body at least two times... maybe three. "Leliana, this gown is far too big."

"Not if you're pregnant."

The gown nearly slipped from Myranda's fingers she stared at the other woman in shock. " _What_ did you say?" she breathed.

"I thought to disguise you as a pregnant noblewoman."

"You're _joking_ , right?" she asked incredulously.

Baby barked, seemingly with laughter

"Come now, Myranda," Leliana said. "The guards would not think to harass and search a noble who is with child... especially one close to term."

Myranda continued to look uncomfortable. "Couldn't I simply borrow your Chantry robe and act the sister journeying to Denerim with her templar escort?"

"Then you would have to be put into the cloister... the doors of which are locked at night and are not opened again until after dawn."

"And Loghain knows I'm a templar," Alistair added. In his hands he had a fur-lined cloak similar to Myranda's, only in darker tones and with a black fur lining.

"But... but..."

"If you are worried about the lie of not carrying a child," Zevran said with a grin, "it could be arranged."

"Not now, Zevran," Myranda said as Alistair glared at the elf. "And how do you propose to make me look pregnant?" she asked, addressing the bard again.

"That's the easy part!" Leliana said with a smile, picking up the other two packages and pulling the blonde toward her tent. "Come on, I'll show you."

 

Fifteen minutes later, Alistair had changed into the new clothes Leliana so loosely called a 'disguise.' He had to admit, however, they were probably the nicest clothes he'd ever owned: aside from the dark blue velvet shirt—which was also embroidered with elegant stitching in gold and silver thread—there was a pair of fine, soft wool trousers the color of doeskin. He even had new boots, trimmed in fur. Together with the new fur-lined cloak he almost _felt_ like a prince... or at least a noble, anyway. The only thing he retained was his sword belt, though he tried to tell himself that they wouldn't need the weapon. He was unable to convince himself, however, and so the belt and sword stayed.

He couldn't imagine what was taking Myranda so long... how long did it take her to put on a gown? It only took a few moments to _remove_ it.... He shook his head, determined not to let his mind wander down that path. He looked up when she finally emerged from Leliana's tent and was shocked at the transformation.

She looked to have gained twenty pounds in nearly as many minutes, all of it concentrated at her stomach, and yet she maintained the same stunning beauty she naturally possessed. The gown had a scooped neck, showing the smooth skin at her collarbone, and fit snugly around her body—including her suddenly-swelled abdomen—and hung almost completely to the ground. The color also picked up and accented the blush in her cheeks and the creaminess of the rest of her exposed skin in a way that made his mouth water. The dove grey cloak sat almost regally on her shoulders. Her hair had been only partially styled: though the bottom layer hung loosely down her back and over her shoulders, the top layer had been carefully pulled back. Two braids wrapped from above her ears to the back of her head before meeting in a large braided coil.

"Ah, Myranda," Zevran said, "you look _marvelous_. You should wear red more often."

Her green eyes turned to him before she looked over at Alistair and her eyebrows lifted in interest, a grin he hadn't seen on her face in weeks curling her lips as she walked over to him.

"Blessed Maker," she said, running her hands up his arms to his shoulders before sliding them down his chest. "This fits you like a _glove_."

"Like it?"

"I would never have picked this color for you, but am I ever glad Leliana did." Her eyes flitted downward before lifting to his again. "You look like a prince."

He smiled a little and tried to pull her against him, but was stopped by the bulge at her stomach. "What _is_ that?" he asked, running his hands over it.

"It's a pair of blankets tied together," Leliana explained, smirking, "tied around her waist. Now you should go. They will probably be less likely to admit you after dusk."

Alistair pulled Myranda's hood up over her hair. "Shall we, then?"

They accepted the wishes of luck from their companions and started to walk away only to stop when Baby began to follow.

"Baby," Myranda said, kneeling awkwardly, "you need to stay here in camp."

Baby whined and tilted his head.

"They'll recognize you... and then they'll recognize me. You know I'm the only noble to have a mabari as a pet."

The dog tilted his ears back, whining plaintively at her.

"Don't worry," she said, scratching him behind the ears and kissing him on the head. "We'll be fine. Stay here and be a good boy. I'll see you tomorrow—I promise."

Baby whined, but turned and padded sadly back toward the camp.

Myranda stood, frowning before turning back toward the road.

"So... do you think this will work?" Alistair asked after a few minutes.

"It should. I know how to be a noble... we'll be fine."

" _You_ do," he pointed out. "I don't."

She smiled at him. "Most of it is in your bearing and your attitude," she said. "Chin up, eyes up. Remember you are used to giving orders, not taking them. And don't _worry_ ," she said, hugging his arm.

"I'm just... nervous."

"That may work in our favor, considering how pregnant I am with your child," she said, placing a hand over the bulge at her stomach. "I'll do all the talking, if you want."

"That may be best. I'll probably get us caught."

She grinned at him, though it faded immediately to a severe expression as a guard who was probably no older than eighteen trotted up to them, bristling with purpose.

"State your business in Denerim," he demanded.

"State our business?" Myranda asked haughtily. "Do you have _any_ idea who we are?"

The young soldier suddenly looked nervous. "Er..."

"I am Bann Ophelia of Southron Reach, protectorate of the Brecilian Passage and of Gwaren. My husband and I have been trying to get to the city to escape the darkspawn for months, and now you _dare_ stand in my way?"

"Begging your pardon, your ladyship," the young guard said, looking nervous and sufficiently intimidated. "I's jus' doin' me job, you know?"

"So your _job_ is to harass the nobility? I daresay Loghain will be pleased to hear how you've pestered his allies. Now I demand you stand aside!" She suddenly gasped and collapsed a little against Alistair, her hand going to her stomach. "Oh, dear..." she murmured, sounding faint.

Alistair's arm went immediately around her shoulders. "Are you all right?" he asked, panicking at her sudden weakness.

"Yes... yes, I'm all right." She took a deep breath. "I told you I wouldn't go into labor before we reached Denerim."

The young guard's eyes widened. "Labor?" he squeaked. "Maker's breath... please... please go ahead."

"Thank you, ser," Alistair said, deftly lifting Myranda into his arms and carrying her through the city gate. He smiled a little as she threaded her arms around his neck and laid her head on his shoulder, listening to her giggle softly into his ear. "You do know, of course, that there is no bann of Southron Reach," he muttered.

" _I_ do... though obviously _he_ didn't," she murmured as he carried her into the middle of the busy Market District. "I think it went rather well."

"Surprisingly."

She smiled at him as he put her gently back on her feet. "You were worried when I collapsed."

"I thought something was wrong... _really_ wrong."

"Good. That means I was convincing. I'll have to tell Leliana that I'm a pretty good actress."

"So... now where?"

"The Gnawed Noble. It's too late to see the brother tonight... we'll have to do it in the morning."

"You!"

They halted at the authoritative voice, turning to see a knight trotting up to them.

"I recognize you... from Ostagar." He looked at Myranda and stumbled backwards. Then he looked at Alistair and his face darkened. "Andraste's blood!" he swore. "You're Grey Wardens! Duncan's apprentices!"

"Surely you must be mistaken," Myranda murmured, placing a hand over her bulging abdomen. "I, a Grey Warden?"

The knight gripped the hilt of his sword. "You killed my friend—and good King Cailan! I demand satisfaction, sers!"

"Use your wits, man," Alistair said. "The Wardens would never help the darkspawn!"

"You _dare_ smear Teyrn Loghain's word?" His blade rang from its sheath. "I demand you prepare yourselves!"

Myranda screamed then—the shrill sound of a lady in danger that turned every head in the Market District and brought several guards running and scared the life out of Alistair. "He means to murder us!" she told the guard captain, pointing frantically at the fuming knight. "We have only just escaped the darkspawn and he accuses us of being Grey Wardens!" She sniffled before a loud sob tore at her throat, turning and burying her face in Alistair's shoulder, quivering as he wrapped his arm around her shoulders.

"Preposterous," the guard captain agreed, his eyes flitting down to the noblewoman's belly.

"I saw them at Ostagar!" the knight yelled.

"My brother was killed at Ostagar," Alistair told the captain as Myranda leaned against him, threading his other arm around her waist. "And her whole family has been killed because of the Blight. It's been quite a shock... for her, I mean." That none of this was a lie made it easier to say, but his heart still pounded with adrenaline at the thought they might be recognized by the guards as well.

"And in her condition, too," the guard captain said, turning to their assailant. "Have you proof of your claims, ser?" he asked coldly.

"Proof?!" the knight asked incredulously. "I need no proof! I _saw_ them! They're Grey Wardens! They killed our king!" He struggled as the guards moved in to restrain him. "No! Let me go! I shall have my revenge!"

"Making accusations without proof is a crime, ser. I'll see you locked up until you come to your senses." He waved to his men to take the raving lunatic away. "Please accept my apologies, my lord. My lady," he said, bowing to the pair. "I assure you that he will not trouble you again."

"Thank you, Captain," Myranda said softly, sniffling. Alistair was surprised to see actual tears slipping down her cheeks. "So terrible that we could be accused of such a thing." Her lower lip trembled and another sob wrenched from her throat. "Oh, my dear brother..."

Alistair lowered his head comfortingly and kissed her forehead. "Come along, now, my dear." He steered her away from the crowd and it was several minutes before he heard that she was stifling laughter, not sobs.

"Oh, that couldn't have gone better if I'd planned it," she said after a moment, lifting her hand and wiping away the mirthful tears. "Maker, I can't believe it worked! That was _brilliant_!"

Alistair found himself chuckling softly, some of his nervousness diminishing. "You scared me almost to death when you screamed. And I thought for sure the guards would recognize us."

"It must be the clothing," Myranda replied. "They're looking for the Grey Wardens Alistair and Myranda, so they'll be looking for us wearing our armor. Put us in civilian clothes and apparently we disappear... even in these bright colors."

"I guess so."

"And I don't think our 'baby' is hurting anything either," she added, patting the bulge at the front of her dress.

"Probably not."

They wound their way through the Denerim streets and managed to avoid further trouble before reaching the tavern. Alistair gallantly opened the door for Myranda, who pushed her hood back as she swayed inside and over to the bartender: a burly man with short dark hair and dark eyes and the beginnings of a beard and mustache.

"Good evenin', m'lady," he said. "What can I do for you?"

"We need accommodations for the night," Myranda said. "Have you any available?"

"Of course. Got two rooms down here on the ground floor... I'm sure you'll be quite comfortable in them."

The blonde smiled a little, taking Alistair's hand in hers as he joined her at the bar. "You wouldn't deny me my husband's warmth on a cold night like this, would you, ser?" she asked, placing her other hand on the lump at her belly.

The barkeeper's dark eyes flitted down to her midsection before he answered her smile with a slightly lewd grin. "There's another room upstairs, but it costs a bit more." His eyes gleamed as Myranda pulled a gold sovereign from her purse.

"Surely this will cover the price of the room... and buy us some privacy as well?" she asked.

"Absolutely, m'lady," he said, taking the gold coin from her and tucking it away quickly. He turned away and barked some orders at a ten-year-old girl, who sprinted up the staircase.

"I'll see to the room, darling," Myranda said to Alistair, leaning over and surprising him with a soft, quick kiss on the lips. "I'll be right back."

Alistair watched her walk over to the staircase before nearly collapsing on a nearby bar stool.

"Here," the barkeeper said, pushing a mug of ale toward him. "You look like you need a drink."

"I think you're right," the Grey Warden replied. "It's been a... interesting day." He took a swallow of the stuff to find it had been severely watered-down. This, however, was probably a blessing in disguise—he couldn't get drunk and completely blow their cover with _this_. "How much?"

"This one's on me—from one father to another."

"Thanks." He took another swallow and tried not to make a face.

"We're about to serve supper. Shall I have one o' my girls bring two plates to your room?"

"Four would be better," he muttered. He knew when he finally calmed down he'd be starving.

"Four?" The barkeeper looked at him sharply, then looked over at Myranda making her careful way back down the stairs and grinned lewdly. "Ah. So she's eatin' for three, aye?" He chuckled. "These your first?"

Alistair blinked. "First?"

"Children, boy! Ah, don't worry. Greatest thrill of your life, having little ones... though the whole time she's carryin' 'em is a bugger... and raisin' 'em isn't _half_ as fun as makin' 'em, 'specially with a wildcat like her." He winked knowingly at Alistair, who fought the urge to blush. "Bet she tells you just how she likes it, doesn't she?" He guffawed loudly as the younger man finally lost the battle with himself and color crept into his cheeks.

"Dearest," Myranda cooed, walking over and threading her hand into the crook of Alistair's elbow, "I believe our room is ready."

"Oh. Oh, good." He pointedly ignored the barkeeper's knowing grin and followed Myranda up the stairs to the large room. A pair of windows were set into the wall opposite the door, allowing the soft dusk to filter in. A large table with a vase of several white daisy-looking flowers and a few red roses occupied the center of the room, accompanied by two chairs. There were two more chairs and a cushioned bench seat with a back near the large fireplace, which had a cheery fire crackling inside to warm the room. The bed was also large and its plain linen coverings looked incredibly luxurious and soft after weeks of sleeping on the ground.

Alistair made his way immediately over to the fireplace, unbuckling his cloak and sword belt and laying both across the bench and collapsing into a chair.

"Are you all right?"

"I can't believe I didn't give us away at least a dozen times," he muttered.

Myranda laughed softly. "It's the middle of a Blight and your dear wife is heavily pregnant. You aren't expected to be in your right mind."

"I... suppose not."

"Now for supper... I'm starving."

"The barkeeper said something about sending his daughter up with something."

The blonde woman nodded. "Good," she said. "Excellent."

Alistair watched as she wandered around the room for a moment before something the barkeeper had said came back to him. "What would he mean by 'eating for three'?"

Myranda looked at him, surprised. "What?"

"When I asked for four plates, he asked if you were eating for three."

"Oh." She laughed suddenly. "He thinks I'm carrying twins."

"Twins?!"

"There's a phrase... they say when a woman is pregnant, she starts 'eating for two,' meaning her and the child. It's mostly nonsense, but that's the phrase." She started to lift her skirt. "If he thinks I'm eating for three, he thinks I'm with twins... which I suppose would stand to reason. I _told_ Leliana this bundle was too big!"

As she gathered her skirt up to get to the knots securing the bundle to her middle, Alistair noticed for the first time the bandages wrapped around her pelvis. "Are you all right?" he asked, suddenly concerned. "Are you injured?"

Myranda looked up as she started to loosen the final knot. "What? No. No, I—"

She was cut off by a knock on the door and only just dropped her skirt before the door opened to admit a young girl of about sixteen, balancing a large tray in her arms. "Excuse me, my lord. My lady." She managed to curtsy, even with the large tray.

"Do you need some help?" Alistair asked, rising from his chair.

"No, no, my lord," the girl said, stepping into the room and placing the obviously heavy tray on the table. "I've brought your suppers," she said rather unnecessarily as the mouth-watering aroma of meat and pastry had accompanied her into the room.

"Ah, good," Myranda said, placing a hand over the bulge in the front of her dress. "I'm starving."

"Smells good, too," Alistair added.

"It's our house special," the girl said proudly. "It's mutton stewed with potatoes and carrots and peas, put in a pie shell and baked. I brought the four largest, as Papa said my lady was with child." She glanced nervously at the blonde. "I... hope this will be satisfactory?"

"I'm sure it will."

The girl's large dark brown eyes sparkled.  "If I may ask, my lady," she said, "how soon are you expecting?"

Myranda blinked before placing her other hand underneath the lump on her stomach and smirking. "It won't be much longer."

"Well, should you need a midwife while you're with us, I have some of the skills. I've helped my mother with my younger brothers and sisters."

"That's very kind. Thank you." She nodded graciously as the girl curtsied again and let herself out of the room before crossing to the door. She listened intently for a few moments before throwing the bolt. "There." Only then did she remove her hand from under the bulge, allowing it to slide down her legs to land with a slight thud on the wooden floor. "Congratulations," she said, stepping back away from the bundle of fabric on the floor by her feet. "You're the father of two bouncing baby blankets."

"Are they boys or girls?"

Myranda separated her knife from the pile and set it on the table before she held up the blankets, staring at them for a moment. "Shall we say one of each?" she asked with a grin.

They ate the surprisingly delicious pies with great gusto, enjoying the mutton and vegetables after a seemingly endless diet of rabbit and venison. They all but licked the plates clean of the savory gravy before retiring back to the fireplace, sitting together on the bench and watching the flames dancing in the hearth. Alistair wrapped his arm around Myranda's shoulders as she lounged against him, sighing softly as he nuzzled her hair. This could be perfect. Tonight they were alone... there could be no distractions from Baby or Leliana or Zevran. _Especially_ Zevran. Tonight he could again confess his love to her, wooing her and slowly pulling her back into his love so that she forgot the Antivan even existed.

If only he knew how he'd won her the first time!

"Have I told you how beautiful you look in that dress?" he asked after several long, quiet moments.

Myranda looked up at him and laughed. "Alistair, it's like a tent. I don't think I could fix it to where it even looked decent." She picked at the excess fabric hanging around her middle. "Although I'll have to do something with it tomorrow... at least until we get back to the others and I can change back into my armor." She looked back up at him with a mysterious smile. "You, however, look stunning... truly like a prince."

He smiled before leaning over to kiss her, a kiss she returned almost immediately. They sat lost in the kiss for several long moments until Alistair started to slide his hand under the skirt of the red dress and she caught his wrist, pulling out of the kiss and shaking her head.

"No," she murmured. "Not tonight." She looked at him imploringly. "Another night?"

He sighed softly. "Right." He stood and scooped her up in his arms before carrying her over to the bed and laying her down on it. "You should get some sleep," he told her.

She smiled a little, catching his arm as he started to pull away. "You wouldn't deny me my lover's warmth on a cold night like this, would you?"

"I try not to," he said before his lips were caught in her soft, inviting kiss.

"So... won't you join me?" she murmured.

He smiled a little before laying down next to her, pulling her close and kissing her softly and deeply as his fingers dove into her hair. She moaned as her hands ran slowly and leisurely over his torso, apparently enjoying the feel of the velvet before her fingers moved to the buttons and deftly undid them before her palms slid up his bare stomach and chest. The feel of her hands on his skin made him moan softly before he shrugged off the shirt and allowed her to pull it completely off. He ran his tongue gently along her lower lip before sucking on it, eliciting another, louder moan from her. He moved his arm to wrap around her waist, pulling her lower body more firmly against him as she ran her hands up his chest. He pulled his other hand slowly from her hair, tracing his fingertips along her jaw and down her neck before taking her breast and massaging it.

Myranda pulled out of the kiss immediately, sucking in a sharp breath through her teeth. "Ow..."

"Are you all right?" Alistair asked, suddenly concerned. Dear Andraste... what had he done? How had she managed to get hurt?

"Oh... yes. Yes, I'm all right." She lay her arms over her breasts and winced. "I guess I just... can't. Not tonight. I'm sorry."

He sighed again. "Another night," he said.

"Yes." She snuggled against him. "Thank you for understanding."

"Of course." He sighed to himself as she snuggled against him, holding her gently until she fell asleep. He knew something like this would happen... but how was he supposed to compete with Zevran?

 

 

Myranda sat up suddenly, startled awake by the nightmare. It was the one about Howe's betrayal—a nightmare she hadn't had in weeks. She felt the tears welling in her eyes and lifted her hands to cover her face.

"Myranda?" Alistair asked, sitting up and wrapping his arm around her quivering shoulders. "What is it? What's the matter?"

"Nothing... nothing. Just a nightmare. Go back to sleep."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm fine," she said before another sob tore from her throat. "Please. It's nothing."

But it wasn't nothing. Obviously nothing wouldn't have her crying like this. He sat up with her, holding her gently until the tears lessened and she finally lay back down.

Neither slept much more that night.

 

 

In the morning before dawn, Alistair left the room to allow Myranda some privacy for her toilette. When he returned with a large tray of food, she had dressed, though two inches of the hem were missing, had redone her hair in two twin braids and was washing out a set of bandages in the porcelain basin. She looked up when he came in, smiling before sniffing the air.

"That smells divine," she said, taking the bandages out of the bowl and squeezing the discolored water out of them. "What's for breakfast?"

"Fried eggs, oat porridge, toast and tea. I think they gave us enough for everyone in our camp."

"Or enough for two Grey Wardens, right?" she said as she hung the bandage across the bedside table. They were mostly clean, but a few dark spots clung stubbornly to them.

The reappearance of the bandages worried Alistair. "Are you all right?"

"Hm? Oh, yes, yes. Yes, everything's back to normal this morning. Thank the Maker," she added, shaking the water from her hands and walking over to the table. "Was there anyone downstairs?"

"No. I had to go to the kitchen to get this." He looked slightly chagrined. "I think I startled the girl who brought dinner last night."

"They're not used to nobles sticking their heads in the kitchen before sunup." She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek before tossing the braid that had fallen forward back over her shoulder and sitting gracefully. "We'll have to hurry, though... I don't want anyone to see us leave."

They ate quickly and Alistair held the excess material of her dress bunched behind her as she looped the cord that had held her "baby" bulge the day before around her waist in a pseudo belt before securing her knife to it. Leaving two gold coins on the table after Myranda coiled the two braids up and pinned them, they sneaked quietly down the stairs and out into the frigid air and empty streets.

"Now then," Myranda said, looking around as she wrapped her new cloak around her and pulled up the hood. "I think Teagan said that the brother's house was in this section."

"Myranda, it's only just dawn. Even if he's home, do you honestly think he'd be awake?"

"He's a brother. Aren't there dawn services or prayers?"

Regardless of this valid argument, they spent an embarrassingly long time searching out and finding the scholar's home. Coming to a number that sounded vaguely familiar, Myranda knocked on the door. The door opened a little to reveal a young man with short, cropped black hair and dark, suspicious eyes.

"Yes?" he asked. "What are you doing here?"

"We're looking for Brother Genitivi," Myranda said.

"Brother Genitivi?" The dark eyes narrowed. "Why?" he asked, his wariness obvious.

"I would like to speak with him about his research."

"His research?" He blinked then as if he suddenly realized what she was talking about. "Ah, you mean his search for Andraste's Ashes. Come in, come in, please," he said, pulling the door open more fully to admit them.

The two Grey Wardens stepped into the warmth of the small house, pushing back the hoods of their cloaks as they made their way to the small fireplace. The whole house smelled of old books and parchment, though for good reason: every wall had at least two bookcases that were overflowing with volumes. A table in the middle of the room was littered with maps.

"My name is... Weylon," the young man said, introducing himself. "I am Brother Genitivi's assistant. May I ask who you are?"

"Our names aren't important," Myranda said, turning back to him. "Can you tell us anything about the brother and his search for the Urn?"

"He was on the trail of the Urn of Sacred Ashes, yes," Weylon said. "Whether he found it..." his voice trailed off and he shrugged. "The Maker only knows."

Myranda and Alistair exchanged a look.

"I haven't seen Brother Genitivi in weeks," the young assistant was saying. "He's sent no word; it's so unlike him. I am afraid something has happened. Genitivi's research into the Urn may have led him into danger."

"Why would searching for the Urn lead him into danger?" Alistair asked.

"Perhaps the Urn has been lost for a reason," Weylon said. "I pray for Genitivi's safety, but hope dwindles with each passing day. I-I tried to send help, but some knights came from Redcliffe looking for him not long ago. I sent them after Genitivi and they too have disappeared."

"How do you know they disappeared?" Myranda asked, her eyes narrowing slightly.

Weylon looked at her. "Well, they... haven't returned, and they sent no word, either."

"Are you so close to the knights?" she pressed. "Why send _you_ word?"

"I... I-I don't know," he said, looking slightly nervous. "Perhaps I am just a pessimist. I hope I am wrong."

Alistair reached over and put a hand on Myranda's shoulder, feeling it drop a little as she relaxed and subsided. She was edgy, and it was scaring the boy. And he wouldn't be able to tell them anything if he was afraid she was going to gut him. "Where did you send them?" he asked the assistant.

"No," Weylon said, holding up his hands, "don't ask me where they went. You'll go after them, and what if ill-luck should befall you, too?" He shook his head. "This search is a curse on all of us. Some things are-are not meant to be found. I know that now."

"We're willing to risk it," Myranda told him, speaking more gently than she had before as she reached up and patted Alistair's hand where it rested on her shoulder. "Tell us where he went."

Weylon looked between them before sighing heavily and lowering his eyes. "So be it," he murmured. He lifted his eyes again and looked suddenly and incredibly calm. "All he said before he left was that he would be staying at an inn near Lake Calenhad, investigating something in that area."

"What exactly was he investigating?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. All I discovered from going through his research was that he was staying at the inn."

Myranda's eyebrow quirked upward. "But you just said that he spoke to you and told you that."

Weylon blinked. "Y-yes, of course he told me," he stammered, "but I also went through his things to see if I could find other clues to his whereabouts."

"And I suppose you found no other clues?"

"N-no, I didn't. Everything pointed to the same place." He watched her as she went over to the table and started to flip through the maps upon it. "You're wasting _time_ ," he said, suddenly sounding exasperated. "If you insist on going after Brother Genitivi, you should leave as soon as possible."

Myranda lifted her green eyes from the maps. "You told me I shouldn't go looking for Genitivi... or the Urn."

Dark eyes flitted between her and Alistair. "I mean, well... you seemed so earnest. If anyone is to find him, they should do it sooner rather than later."

She walked slowly back toward the young assistant, holding her hand up to Alistair when he opened his mouth to speak. "Or do you just not like me asking all these questions?" she asked softly.

"I... I'm just his assistant. I... I just follow instructions."

"Are you?"

"Y-yes! Of course I am!"

Alistair watched, amazed at this interrogation. He'd never seen Myranda act quite this way... she almost swayed over to the young assistant, seeming to use her sex appeal—which he had to admit was considerable—and soft, gentle tone as weapons. And he was starting to realize what she had picked up on: his story was changing—slightly, but changing nonetheless—as she questioned him.

"You sound nervous, Weylon," she cooed. She circled around behind him and put her hands on his shoulders before leaning over to murmur into his ear. "You're hiding something from me."

"No!" Weylon cried, pulling violently away from her. "That's n-not true. I told you everything I know. Brother Genitivi told us—t-told _me_... about the inn and that's all!"

"Us?" Alistair repeated, catching the slip this time. "Who's 'us'?"

"Us?" Weylon asked, turning to him. "I mean _me_! T-there is no us!" His face darkened suddenly. "Bah! _Why_ do I keep up this charade?" he asked rhetorically. He turned his dark eyes from Alistair to Myranda. "I gave you a chance to turn aside and forget you ever heard of Genitivi and the Urn," he said, "but you persisted. Now it has come to this." He brought his hands together, cupping them as if cradling something in his palms. "Andraste forgive me, I do this in Your Name!"

The two Grey Wardens flung themselves out of the way as lightning shot from the young man's hands toward them. Alistair didn't have time to counter with any of his templar abilities, as Myranda was behind the apostate in an instant, jerking his head back by his hair before dragging her knife across his throat from ear to ear. She then pushed him to the ground, frowning as he oozed blood over the wooden floor.

"Well, _that_ didn't go well," she said.

"Do you think he killed Genitivi?"

"I don't know." She knelt and went through the dead man's pockets quickly. "I think we need to find the real Weylon, however. And the identity of the 'us' that he mentioned."

"Right." He wandered toward a door that presumably led to a back room. It turned out to be locked. "Myranda," he called.

She wandered out of a side room, a book in her hands. "What did you find?" she asked, tossing the book on the table with the maps.

"Why would this door be locked?" he asked.

She pursed her lips and knelt in front of the lock. "Damn," she muttered. "Damn it, Zevran, where are you when I need you?"

"I think I might be able to break it down," Alistair said, hearing the comment and resenting it.

Myranda frowned up at him. "Please don't hurt yourself."

It took a few tries, but he finally managed to smash through the door, crashing through it and into the room beyond.

"Are you all right?" Myranda asked, starting to follow him before recoiling. "Oh, Maker!"

The room beyond was obviously a study, packed with more bookcases than it seemed possible for a room to hold. A desk in the middle of the room, as well the floor around it, was covered in papers. Most noticeable in the room, however, was the stench: it was positively foul and obviously originated from the corpse laying in the middle of the floor. A stain that was most likely the boy's blood encircled the body where it had spilled and then dried.

Myranda brought the edge of her cloak up to her face, burying her nose in the fur to try to block the stench. "The real Weylon, I presume."

"I'd think so."

Myranda stepped over the body on the way to the desk, rifling through the papers and drawers before coming up with a small leather-bound volume and a few papers, closing them up in a larger book that lay open on the desk. She brushed past Alistair quickly to leave the room. "Close the door," she managed, taking the bundle over to the table that was littered with maps before collapsing into a violent fit of coughing.

"Maker," Alistair said around a cough of his own as he pulled the door shut. "What do we do about the smell?"

"Nothing," she said. "We can't. If we open the window, someone else will smell it and get suspicious, and when they find us here, we'll be suspected of two murders."

"So what now?" he asked, joining her at the table.

"We have to find Genitivi," she replied, removing her cloak and laying it on the table before opening the large book and pulling out the papers and the small leather journal. "I don't buy the Lake Calenhad story, but there must be a clue here somewhere." She pushed the larger book toward him as he laid his cloak with hers. "See what you can find in there."

They looked through the books and papers for most of the day. Myranda pored over what was apparently Genitivi's research diary, which was mostly full of ramblings about local legends and ancient trade routes. "Have you found anything?" she asked finally.

"Not about the Urn," Alistair replied. "This book seems to be about dragons and dragon cults."

"Dragon _cults_?" she repeated. "Do tell."

Alistair flipped back a page and scanned it before starting to read. "'One dragon cult might be explainable, especially in light of the reverence of the Old Gods in the ancient Tevinter Imperium. In the wake of the first Blight, many desperate imperial citizens turned to the worship of real dragons to replace the Old Gods who had failed them. A dragon, after all, was a god-figure that they could see: It was there, as real as the archdemon itself, and, as evidence makes clear, did offer a degree of protection to its cultists.'"

"The dragon protected the cultists?" Myranda asked incredulously.

"According to this."

"How does _that_ work?"

"I just finished reading that part," he said, flipping forward a few pages then turning back one. "Here it is: 'Members of a dragon cult live in the same lair as a high dragon, nurturing and protecting its defenseless young. In exchange, the high dragon seem to permit those cultists to kill a small number of those young in order to feast on draconic blood.'"

"Why in the name of Andraste would they drink dragon blood?"

"It says here that the blood supposedly gives greater strength and endurance, as well as an increased desire to kill, though it also makes you go insane."

"So it's not unlike drinking darkspawn blood... only with lower risk of death on drinking."

"I guess so." He closed the book and rubbed his eyes. "What about you? Have you found anything?"

"No. Just all the same tales and legends that we've heard about the Urn since we were babies." She sighed and turned a page before sitting up in her chair. "Wait a minute. Listen to this: 'The village of Haven in the Frostbacks seems a good place to start. Pity it's not on any maps.'"

"Well, how are _we_ supposed to find it, then?" Alistair asked. "The Frostbacks cover a large area."

"I don't know." She flipped forward a few pages before finding a roughly sketched map among the pages. "Here!" she said, holding the book open and pushing it across to him. "Here it is... he must have found it on some map somewhere!"

Alistair studied the small map before looking at the larger one on the table beneath it. "Do you think he'd mind if we borrowed one of his maps?"

"Or we could take the book. It has the roads and passes marked as well." She looked at him and smiled a little. "Trust me, you don't want me to try to draw all of this in."

"Stealing books again?" he asked with a teasing smile.

"I told you: I'm not stealing. I'm borrowing. For an indefinite period of time." She tucked the small book into her makeshift belt. "Come on, let's go."

They refastened their cloaks and, after making sure no one was about, left the house quickly, circling around by the walls of the Alienage in a circuitous route toward the main gate. Suddenly Alistair stopped, staring at one of the rundown houses—which looked like it doubled as some sort of shop.

"Alistair?" Myranda asked, turning back to him.

"That's... my sister's house," he said. "I'm almost sure of it, this is..." his voice trailed off as he looked around, getting his bearings. "Yes, this is the right address. She could be inside." He looked over at her hopefully. "Could we... go and see?"

Myranda smiled at him. "Yes, let's do that. It's one of the reasons we're here, after all."

Alistair looked back at the house again. "Will she even know who I am?" he asked softly. "Does she even know I exist? My sister." He paused for a moment. "That sounds very strange... 'sister.' 'Siiissster.'"

Myranda giggled a little at how he seemed to be tasting the word.

Hazel eyes glanced at her. "Now I'm babbling," he said. Then he started to back away from the door. "Maybe we should go," he said nervously. "Let's go. Let's just... go."

"Oh, no you don't," Myranda said with a smile, grabbing his arm. "Come on. We're here. It won't hurt to look." She pulled him toward the door, knocking sharply on the door twice before opening the door and pushing him inside before following.

Alistair looked back at her nervously before calling into the empty house. "Err... hello?"

"Eh?" A sharp-featured woman with filthy red hair and ragged clothes came into the room then, eyeing them calculatingly and obviously looking at the clothes and implied wealth rather than at the people wearing them. "You have linens to wash? I charge three bits on the bundle, you won't find better." Her eyes narrowed then. "And don't trust what that Natalia woman tells you either, she's foreign and she'll rob you blind."

Alistair glanced back at Myranda again, who nodded encouragingly, before speaking. "I'm... not here to have any wash done. My name's Alistair. I'm... well, this may sound sort of strange, but are you Goldanna? If so, I suppose I'm your brother."

The woman blinked in bewilderment. "My _what_? I am Goldanna, yes..." her voice trailed off and she narrowed her dark eyes suspiciously. "How do you know my name? What kind of tomfoolery are you up to?"

"He's telling the truth," Myranda told her. "Listen to him."

"Look," Alistair added, "our mother... she worked as a servant in Redcliffe Castle a long time ago, before she died. Do you know about that? She—" his voice cut off when the woman pointed a finger at him, her eyes wide with something between shock and fear.

"You!" she cried. "I knew it! They told me you was dead! They told me the babe was dead along with Mother, but I knew they was lying!"

"They told you I was dead?" he asked, blinking in confusion. "Who? Who told you that?"

"Them's at the castle!" Goldanna said. "I told them the babe was the king's, and they said he was dead. Gave me a coin to shut my mouth and sent me on my way! I knew it!"

Alistair glanced at Myranda for a moment before turning back to Goldanna. "I'm sorry," he said. "I... didn't know that. The babe didn't die. I'm him; I'm... your brother."

The woman's face darkened and she sneered at him. "For all the good it does me!" she scoffed. "You killed Mother, you did, and I've had to scrape by all this time! That coin didn't last long, and when I went back they ran me off!"

"That's hardly Alistair's fault, is it?" Myranda challenged, surprised and resentful of this woman suddenly trying to make Alistair feel guilty for being born.

"And who in the Maker's name are _you_?" Goldanna asked, turning fierce and furious eyes to her. "Some tart, following after his riches, I expect?"

Myranda's eyes widened at the other woman's gall before they narrowed dangerously. She'd have drawn her knife and slit the insolent shrew's throat for mouthing off but for Alistair coming to her defense.

"Hey!" he said, putting an arm out in front of Myranda as if to physically block the verbal abuse directed at her. "Don't speak to her that way! She's my friend, and a Grey Warden! Just like me!"

"Ooohhh, I see," Goldanna said sarcastically, holding up her hands in a mocking show of submission. "A prince and a Grey Warden, too. Well, who am _I_ to think poorly of someone so _high_ and _mighty_ compared to me?" The ugly sneer returned to her lips, becoming almost a snarl. "I don't know you, boy. Your royal father forced himself on my mother and took her away from me, and what do I got to show for it? _Nothing_! They tricked me good! I should have told everyone! I got five mouths to feed, and unless you can help with that, I got less than no use for you."

Alistair cringed away from her like a beaten puppy. "I... I'm sorry, I... I don't know what to say..."

"I do," Myranda said coldly, placing a comforting hand on Alistair's shoulder. "You'd best watch your tongue, slattern. Alistair came here hoping to find his family, and—"

"Well he found it," Goldanna interrupted. "And what good is that to me? None, that's what, unless he can see to it that his family lives as it should!"

"I'd say you already are," the blonde muttered to herself.

Alistair looked at her then. "I suppose maybe I could give her some money... for my nieces and nephews? Fifteen sovereigns, maybe? Would you let me give her that?"

Myranda frowned. "Five," she ordered, tossing the money pouch to him before turning cold green eyes back to the other woman. "And she'd better be grateful for that."

"Then here, Goldanna... take this money," he said, holding out the five gold coins. "I know it's not much, but—" he stopped in shock when the woman snatched them quickly out of his hand. She stared at them, her extreme avarice lighting her dark eyes before she looked back at him.

"You, a prince, marching in here with your fancy clothes and such, and _this_ is all you got to offer?" she asked, shoving the coins brazenly down the front of her dress. "You must think I'm very stupid!"

Myranda toyed with the idea of asking for the coins back, but didn't think she wanted them to contaminate the rest of the purse with filth.

"No, wait," Alistair was saying hastily. "I don't think that at all! I want to help, if I can..."

"You want to help?" Goldanna interrupted, charging toward him until Myranda stepped forward threateningly, her hand on the hilt of her knife, and she backed off. "You go to whatever high-and-mighty folks you run with," she ordered, "and you tell them you've got nephews and nieces that aren't living as they've a right to! You do that!"

"I think you are living just as you should," Myranda said coldly, "in the filth with the other swine." She looked at Alistair. "It looks like all she wants is your money," she said.

"Yes, it really seems that way, doesn't it?" he said, sounding severely disappointed. "I wasn't expecting my sister to be so..." he shook his head. "I'm starting to wonder why I came."

"I don't know why you came, either," Goldanna said, "or what you expected to find. But it isn't here!"

"There are a great many things I find are not present here," Myranda said. "Though the air is thick with undeserved self-righteousness. Do you truly have children?" she asked. "If so, could you describe the father to me? I'd like to offer him my condolences for bedding such a shrew." She narrowed her eyes. "Or are there several I should offer my sympathy?"

Goldanna looked at her in pure hatred. "Get out of my house," she ordered, "the both of you!"

"Now _that_ is the first helpful thing you've said since we arrived." She looked at Alistair. "Let's leave," she told him, opening the door. "Now."

"I agree," he said. "Let's get out of here." He led the way back out into the freezing air, the other Grey Warden following close behind him.

Myranda stood still for a moment outside the door, closing her eyes and pushing back her murderous rage. She shivered with the effort and then breathed a heavy sigh.

"Well that was... not what I expected. To put it lightly."

Myranda's green eyes opened again and she looked up at him.

"I'm sorry I gave her any money at all. This is the family I've been wondering about all my life? That gold-digging harridan? I can't believe it." He sighed and shook his head slowly. "I... I guess I was expecting her to accept me without question. Isn't that what family is supposed to _do_? I... I feel like a complete idiot."

Another, softer sigh escaped her. He was right: a family member should accept him unconditionally. It made her wonder if this Goldanna was actually his sister at all. "You don't need her," she said gently, laying a hand on his arm. "You have others who care for you."

"Such as?" he asked miserably. "The only person who ever cared about me was Duncan. And he's gone."

Myranda was stunned. He might as well have plunged a dagger into her heart—that may have hurt less. How could he say that? How could he after she... and after they'd... " _I_ care about you," she whispered, her throat tightening inexplicably.

Alistair looked over at her, saw the hurt in her eyes, and instantly regretted everything. "I..." he started, then gave up. "Thank you," he said, placing his hand over hers. "I'm glad you came with me."

She gave him a wan smile, squeezing his arm gently.

But the damage was done—he saw that. He sighed heavily. "Let's just go," he said. "I don't want to talk about this any more."

 

 

They trudged back to the camp outside the city in a downhearted silence. They didn't look at each other, or at anything other than the ground until they heard loud, happy barking.

Myranda knelt to greet the mabari as he ran to her, rubbing him and hugging him around the neck. "Hello, Baby! How's my good boy? Did you behave yourself?"

Baby barked, bouncing in a circle around her.

"I missed you, too. Who's my sweet boy?" She smiled, but it didn't quite meet her eyes.

"How was your trip into Denerim?" Leliana asked.

Myranda frowned. "Horrible," she said, before ducking into her tent and effectively dodging all other questions.

 

 

Alistair sat gloomily by the fire that night, staring into the flames without seeing. How could he have been so naïve? Goldanna was right... she had no true connection to him. She didn't know him, and he didn't know her. How could he have been so _stupid_ as to think that a word like "sister" or "brother" would forge a connection between them? They were just words, after all. They meant less than nothing in this world. But he'd hoped that there was more of value in this world and in this life than coin. But that was probably stupid as well.

The touch of a hand on his shoulder broke his reverie and he looked up into Myranda's shining emerald eyes. She was back in her regular shirt and leggings and looked much more comfortable in them.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

"I just feel like an idiot," he said, looking back at the fire. "I don't know why I expected a woman I'd never met to take me in unconditionally."

"Because that's what family does," Myranda said. "Or at least, that's what they're _supposed_ to do."

He reached up and laid his hand over hers, leaning back and resting his head on her stomach when she moved to stand behind him. He let his eyes close, taking comfort in her nearness and her strength as her other hand moved to his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," she murmured after several long, quiet moments.

"Me too. I'm sorry for what she said to you."

Myranda sighed softly. "Nothing that happened back there was your fault, her resentment and jealousy least of all. Though I will admit the thought of committing murder did cross my mind."

"I know. I saw it." He opened his eyes. "And I'm not sure now that I'd stop you."

"Don't tempt me." She smiled a little. "Although I do have an assassin in my employ."

He said nothing to this.

"I don't care what she said to me. I've heard worse from tongues sharper than hers and with better vocabularies. Nobles are good at hurling insults at each other." She moved her hand to gently massage the back of his neck. "What angered me was the way she spoke to you, how she proceeded to crow over you as if she was better than you. She isn't, and don't you dare think she is. That her mother died is _not_ your fault."

Alistair breathed a heavy sigh. "I'm also sorry that I hurt you," he said quietly. "I don't know what I was thinking."

"It's all right, dearest," she said, sliding her hand along his shoulders as she moved to sit next to him. "I do understand."

"I guess I just... I suppose I was better off thinking I didn't have a family."

"You do have a family," she said. "The Grey Wardens are like a family, you know."

He looked over at her to find her smiling gently at him. She was right. She was his sister truer than Goldanna ever could be. But she was more than that... so much more. He managed a small smile. "Thank you."

Her smile became more affectionate and she lifted her hand to his face. "Come to bed soon," she said. "It's been a long, trying day and we didn't sleep well last night."

He nodded a little, turning back to the fire to stare into it again. She hesitated, then stood and walked away. And, for some reason, the simple act of her leaving spurred him into desperate action. "Myranda?" he called, standing and turning toward her.

The blonde stopped and looked back at him. "Yes?"

"Look, before we go any further I want to say something."

"Go ahead."

He looked around. "Not here," he said, taking her hand and pulling her a short ways away from the camp.

Myranda laughed a little. "What's this all about, Alistair?"

He turned back to her. "I need to tell you something," he said. "I appreciate that you brought me to see my sister, and that you... well, that you were there to talk me down after we left." He lifted his hands to cup her face. "You're a true friend and I... love you." The last two words came out almost as a desperate whisper. "I just... wanted to tell you that."

She smiled. "I love you, too," she murmured before lifting her hand to his face. "I'm sorry that she hurt you, but I'm glad I was there for you. And you don't need her. Let her live out her miserable life and don't think any more about her... she isn't worthy of your concern."

Alistair smiled a little, kissing her softly before pulling her into a gentle hug. She did love him... he knew that. His imagination had just run unchecked... he had to have been imagining that something was wrong. Everything was just fine.

Myranda snuggled against him, happy to lose herself in his embrace. She didn't want him to feel indebted to that horrible shrew of a woman or to feel like his life was worth less than nothing. He had something Goldanna would never attain, riches beyond mere gold. He had a kind heart and a good soul—two things that could not be bought—and it was with these that he was wealthier than all the kings in Thedas. And, Maker bless him, she loved him with every fiber of her soul.

_"Love is ultimately selfish. It demands that one be devoted to a single person, who may fully occupy one's mind and heart, to the exclusion of all else. A Grey Warden cannot afford to be selfish."_

Myranda's eyes opened as the vicious voice in her mind whispered the dark reminder. Oh, dear, blessed Andraste... was she truly being selfish?

Alistair noticed the change in her immediately—the way she tensed suddenly in his arms—and frowned. "What's wrong?" he asked softly.

She shook her head. "Just... hold me."

He wrapped his arms around her and held her tightly against him, but he could still feel her unease. There was something terribly wrong, and his heart ached as the explanation hit him suddenly.

He was losing her.


	25. The Trek to Haven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party makes its way toward Haven and Myranda and Alistair make up for lost time.
> 
> This chapter contains an EXPLICIT SEX SCENE. As before I've marked it off between *~*~*~*~*

**Chapter 25: The Trek to Haven**

_I have found the paradox, that if you love until it hurts, there can be no more hurt, only more love. ~ Mother Teresa_

 

_[Firstfall 6]_

"So tell me about your adventures."

Zevran looked at the blonde woman and blinked. "My adventures?" he asked before chuckling to himself. "I'm hardly an old man just returned from across the ocean, am I? Should I shake my fist at nearby children while I talk about the good old days?"

Myranda giggled a little. "You certainly talk like you've had adventures."

"Falling down a flight of stairs is an adventure," the elf noted. "Falling into someone's bed? Also an adventure." This earned him a laugh. "But I am assuming what you're looking for are professional anecdotes."

"Preferably, yes."

"Hmm. Let's see." He thought for a moment. "My second mission ever for the Crows was a bit intriguing. I was sent to kill a mage who had been meddling in politics."

"Meddling in politics how?" Myranda asked, curious.

"How should I know? I got the impression it involved sex... but then I get that impression about most everything. Odd, really."

The Grey Warden woman grinned. "Quite."

"As it turned out, the mage in question was quite a delightful young woman. Long, divine legs, as I recall. I caught her in a carriage on her way to escape to the provinces. After I killed her guard, she got down on her hands and knees and begged for her life... rather aptly, I might add. So I joined her in the carriage for the night and left the next morning."

"And she didn't try to kill you?"

"Well, yes," Zevran admitted. "Twice, actually. Then she decided to try and use me, instead."

"The Crows would be pleased."

"Since you mention them, the woman had actually convinced me to speak to the Crows on her behalf."

Myranda clicked her tongue in disapproval.

Zevran sighed dramatically. "What can I say? I was young and foolish at the time."

"What happened?"

"As I was kissing her good-bye to return to Antiva City, she slipped on the threshold and fell backwards out of the carriage. Broke her neck. Shame, really, but at least it happened quickly."

Green eyes blinked. "Were you upset?"

"At first, yes. Well," he said, apparently deciding to qualify, "not upset... surprised is really a better word. Then I found out that she had told the driver to take her to Genellan instead. She had planned to lose me in the provinces. I would have looked very foolish to the Crows. As it was, my master was very impressed that I had done such a fine job of making it look like an accident. The Circle of Magi was unaware of foul play and everyone was happier all around."

"These sorts of things seem to happen to you often."

"Like being spared by a benevolent mark who then helps me escape from the Crows?" he asked with a grin. "Yes, it does seem to happen now and again, doesn't it? But it was after that when I learned that one needn't let a pretty face go to your head. Professionalism is key. That's my moral of the day, you see."

Myranda lifted an eyebrow. "So you _never_ mix business with pleasure?" It seemed so unlike him.

"Oh, I might be convinced." He grinned at her then, a look that spoke volumes. "I think that it would take being captured and tied up by a beautiful woman at the very least."

"Oh, I wasn't talking about me..." she said, looking away quickly.

"You should see your face when you say that," Zevran laughed at her.

Myranda lifted a hand to her face, feeling the heat of the blush in her cheeks. Maker's breath! What was it with the men she was meeting in this adventure? First Teagan, then Alistair, and now Zevran... did they _all_ have to be so charming?

"But that's enough tale-spinning from me for the moment. Talking about the mage has made me a bit nostalgic, I'm afraid. Ah," he said with a sigh, "the good old days."

 

_[Firstfall 9]_

True to the month's prophetic name, the first snow began to fall around midday. The snow made Myranda a little nervous—having abandoned the northern road to cross the Bannorn and avoid getting too close to Highever, the snow meant that the group could be more easily tracked.

Nothing, however, prepared her for the group of bandits that pounced on them. The result was the same: the bandits soon lay dead and dying in the two inches of snow that covered the ground, with the promise to be completely covered by nightfall if they weren't discovered.

Myranda lifted her dagger to finish off the leader when Leliana's voice rang out.

"Stop," she said. "Don't kill him."

Green eyes turned to her with a silent demand for an explanation.

"He is no common bandit," Leliana said. "None of them were. Their weapons and armor are of fine make, and they are well-trained." She looked down at the man at Myranda's feet. "You know what I am talking about, don't you? Who are you?"

The assassin leader coughed, droplets of blood spattering to the crisp white snow. "Someone who regrets taking you on," he said. "Was told it would be an easy job. Kill the little red-haired girl, deal with the others as we pleased."

"Kill the..." the bard's voice trailed off in surprise. "You came to kill me?"

"Finally, someone who's not after _us_ ," Myranda said, looking over at Alistair.

"But why Leliana?" he asked.

"It don't pay to ask why someone wants someone else dead," the assassin leader said around another bloody cough. "I just need to know what to do, and where to get my money." He snorted in derisive laughter. "Ha, money! I'll be lucky to get away with my life, it seems." He looked up at the two women then. "Maybe we could work something out?" he asked. "You'll like the idea."

"Speak quickly," Leliana ordered.

"I've no real quarrel with you," the assassin said. "Wasn't me that wanted you dead, but I know how you can find the one who does."

"Your life for information then," Myranda said.

"I have some directions written down on how to get to the house. It's in Denerim. Here..." he said, taking a slip of parchment from his pocket and holding it up to Leliana, "it's the best I can do."

"Thank you," the bard said, taking it. "Now leave. I never want to see you again."

"Yes, go," Myranda said, sheathing her dagger. "Be grateful for your life."

"Don't worry," the assassin said, getting to his feet slowly. "I'll not trouble you no more." He stumbled off over the hills toward the nearest town.

Myranda watched where he had disappeared for several long minutes before turning back to Leliana. "Well?"

"It's Marjolaine," Leliana said, frowning at the small piece of parchment in her hand. "It has to be."

"I thought you had escaped from her."

"I thought the same." She looked up then. "Maybe someone saw me... when I was in Denerim. Maybe she's finally found me and wants to finish what she started."

Myranda was concerned with the uncertainty and the partial fear in the bard's face and voice. "What do you wish to do?"

Leliana set her jaw. "She needs to answer for what she's done to me," she said determinedly. "If we are ever in Denerim again, I would like to seek her out." The determination seemed to fade a little and she lowered her eyes. "Perhaps it's time to settle this score for good." She didn't sound particularly happy about it.

Myranda frowned before reaching out and putting a hand on the other woman's shoulder. "I will help you, Leliana," she murmured when the blue eyes lifted to hers. "No one attacks my friends and gets away with it."

The smile returned to the bard's lips then. "Thank you, Myranda," she said. "I need to face this... face _her_. I don't know what will happen when I do, but I will feel much better if you're with me."

"Count on it."

 

_[Firstfall 11 – Evening]_

Myranda collapsed in front of the fire after making a circuitous patrol around the camp with Sten, pulling her cloak around her to ward off the chill. Given the uproar in the area they were trudging through, these patrols were necessary.

Zevran clicked his tongue disapprovingly. "You look so tired, my dear," he said, sitting next to her—close, but not quite close enough to seem improper. "It is all this constant walking and fighting. I think I know what you need."

The blonde looked over at him. "This I _have_ to hear."

"My thought is this: We retire to my tent and I show you the sort of massage skills that one only learns growing up in an Antivan whorehouse."

Myranda stared at him, stunned. "You're joking."

"Not at all, my dear Warden," he said with a grin.

Still she didn't answer. Only stared at him in shock.

"Come now, Myranda, it is not such an unusual thing to offer, is it? It shall be absolutely painless, I assure you."

She looked away. "I... I don't know," she said. "I don't think..."

"On the contrary, my dear, often I believe you think too much. It is part of your problem."

Myranda started to protest again, but was cut off when he moved behind her and started massaging her shoulders. The retort melted into a soft groan as the tension there was gently eased away.

"There," Zevran murmured in her ear, "you see?" He moved away from her again and stood before holding an arm out toward his tent. "Come, come, do not be bashful!"

She looked at him uncertainly. "You won't try anything?"

"I shall be a perfect gentleman," he said. Then he grinned—almost leered—at her. "Unless you insist otherwise, of course."

"No. I want you to remain a gentleman."

Zevran bowed. "So... shall we?"

Myranda continued to look unsure. But... it was just a massage. And she _had_ been feeling a little stressed recently. All right... _very_ stressed. But... she had a funny feeling about this... like it wasn't going to end well. Anxiety gnawed at her stomach. What was wrong with the situation? Was it that he wanted her in his tent? Well, it wasn't like she couldn't fight him off if things started to go wrong. She sighed heavily. "All right," she said finally.

"Excellent," Zevran said, looking pleased. "You shall not regret it, I assure you."

 

Alistair, just coming back from the last patrol with Leliana, watched Myranda duck into Zevran's tent, with the smirking elf close behind her. His heart ripped itself to shreds and fell to his feet. No... no, she wouldn't. She _couldn't_! Perhaps they were just talking. Yes, of course. That was a perfectly logical explanation.

Then, so was a ritual dismemberment. Logical, but unlikely.

What could he do, though? He couldn't very well barge in after them. He didn't want to see her with another man. He'd thought... He'd always thought that she loved him. Had she lied? Or had it been true at one time—it had felt so real—and now she had fallen _out_ of love with him? No... no of course not. He'd seen how much she loved him. That couldn't have faded. She wouldn't do that to him. It probably was completely innocent.

Chastising himself for being ridiculous, he ducked into their tent. They were just talking. She'd come to bed soon. He could wait up until then.

 

"I don't know about this, Zevran," Myranda said.

"Ah, you worry too much, my dear. Come now, I do not bite." He smirked. "Not _hard_ , anyway."

"You bite me and I'll put steel through your flesh." She spread her arms a little. "All right, I'm here. Now what?"

"I shall need you to undress."

Bright green eyes narrowed and she scowled. "I knew it," she said, heading for the tent flaps.

"You misunderstand," Zevran said, cutting her off. "I cannot do a proper massage through layers of clothing. They must be removed for you to experience the full benefits."

She stared at him suspiciously for a few long moments before she finally pursed her lips—a sign of acquiescence. "Turn around."

He smirked. "You have nothing I have not seen before."

"Turn around or I'll cut out your eyes."

Zevran clicked his tongue disapprovingly, though he did turn. "So distrustful, Myranda," he admonished.

"I don't trust you not to peek," she corrected, checking to make sure there was no reflecting object in front of him before gathering her shirt up. "The only person allowed to see me naked is Alistair. And that will not change any time soon."

"A lucky man he is, too." He listened to her shirt drop to the ground and tried to control his imaginings as she moved to lay on the bedroll. "Your leggings as well."

All movement stopped. "Why?"

The layer of steel in her voice made him nervous. "I simply thought to massage your legs, Warden. That is all." There was another long pause, then more rustling.

"All right," she said after several long moments. "You can turn around."

Zevran turned and admired the vision before him. She was laying on her stomach in only her underclothes, though she had a blanket covering the lower half of her body. She had folded her arms under the pillow and looked a bit embarrassed and uncertain. He nodded before moving to sit by her head, reaching under the pillow and taking up her right wrist before gently pulling her arm out. He blinked when he saw she held her knife in her hand. "You truly do not trust me," he said with obvious surprise.

"I'm nervous," she said. "It makes me edgy. And your admitted reputation with women does not help."

He had to laugh at this. "So you are shy! I would truly never have guessed!"

Myranda blushed darkly. "I'm not shy," she retorted. "I'm nervous."

"This shall help you relax. I thought to start with your arms and then move to your legs before massaging your back... and I shall endeavor to control myself to do nothing untoward to your extraordinarily beautiful body," he added as she shifted her grip on the knife hilt.

Myranda watched him for a moment before moving the knife to her left hand. "All right," she said, holding her right arm back out to him.

Zevran worked slowly and methodically messaging her entire arm from her shoulder to her fingertips. The muscles felt like water as he replaced her arm by her head a half-hour later, and Myranda lazily switched the blade back to her dominant hand before surrendering her left arm to the same treatment. When he moved to her legs, she jumped at the sudden touch of his hand on her ankle, a slight giggle escaping her as his fingers ran over the bottom of her foot.

"Sorry," she said.

"Ticklish?" Zevran asked with a grin, pressing a little harder.

"Not really. Just surprised."

He smirked at this obvious lie but did not capitalize upon it, simply continuing to massage her feet before moving to her calves. The muscles of her lower legs seemed especially tight and he found he had to knead the muscles there with slightly more force. But they, too, eventually melted beneath his expert fingers.

He pushed on her knees to open them and gain access to her thighs, but she didn't move.

"No further."

"I simply thought..." his voice trailed off as she lifted herself onto her elbows and glared at him over her shoulder.

"No further," she repeated, a clear warning in her voice.

Zevran held up his hands in surrender. "Very well." He waited until she had laid back down before shifting up to sit beside her, rubbing his hands together to warm them before placing them gently on her lower back and easing them up her spine. When he reached the clasp of her undergarment, he unhooked it skillfully and felt her immediately tense.

"Zevran..."

"Simply removing an obstruction, Warden," he said soothingly as he slid his hands up to her shoulders, fanning his fingers out over her shoulder blades before drawing his hands back down her spine. He repeated this movement several times and, slowly, felt her relax beneath his ministrations.

Myranda felt herself sigh as weeks of pent-up stress slowly melted away under Zevran's hands. She had to admit, it _did_ feel good. She felt herself relaxing, her eyes falling closed as his hands moved in long strokes up either side of her spine to her shoulders before they curled over her sides and slid back down to her hips before moving inward to repeat the motion. Once, his fingertips brushed the sides of her breasts and she broke out of her complacent dozing. She tensed for a moment, then relaxed. It had been an accident, surely. Then it happened again... and then a third time, his hands slowing as he brushed his fingers against her. Myranda made a face—though she knew he couldn't see it—and shifted, bringing her arms underneath her and effectively blocking his direct access to her breasts. If he wanted to grope her now, he'd have to turn her over, and he'd be met with a face full of steel if he did.

Zevran paused as she moved to protect herself before a slight smile crossed his lips. He would accede the loss of his ulterior motive and continue the massage. Why not, after all? It was a victory in itself to have her here and mostly undressed. Oh, the idea that she was so close and could not be touched—yet—was enough to drive him mad.

He smoothed his hands over her back, easing away the tension and feeling her relax completely beneath him. Her breathing slowed. Was she fighting against her desires? He smirked at the thought. The breaths were now deep and even... _too_ even. He blinked and glanced over her shoulder to find her eyes closed and her face relaxed in an obvious look of sleep.

Zevran chuckled to himself, softly so as not to wake her. "Ah, my dear Myranda," he murmured. "You are an amazing woman."

 

_[Firstfall 12 – Dawn]_

Myranda woke feeling warm and completely rested and relaxed. She wasn't sure she'd be able to move and, truthfully, she didn't want to. She snuggled closer to the source of the warmth and sighed, breathing in an unfamiliar but not unpleasant spicy scent. Perhaps it was simply a new soap. Whatever it was, it was sexuality itself, and she was suddenly very aware of how long it had been since they'd made love. "Good morning, darling," she murmured.

"Well," purred an accented voice that was certainly not Alistair. "I didn't know you could be so friendly, my dear Warden."

Myranda's eyes snapped open and she found herself in an unfamiliar tent... with a naked and smirking Zevran laying next to her. She gasped and pushed herself violently away from him, holding the blanket to her chest. Oh, Maker's mercy... what... what had she done? What had _they_ done? Why couldn't she remember? If he'd drugged her and used her... "What did we do?" she asked coldly.

"Do you not remember?" he asked with a smug grin. The smile left his face as she suddenly grabbed the knife she had kept under the pillow and held the blade pressed against his manhood, dropping the blanket to seize him by the throat.

"I am not in the mood for your games," she growled. "Answer my question."

Zevran couldn't help how his eyes wandered down her nearly naked body, taking in every detail. Blessed Maker, she was _marvelous_. He winced as the pressure from the knife increased.

"I swear on Andraste's ashes, elf, lower your eyes again and I will remove your reason for caring."

He looked back at her green eyes and saw the murderous truth in them. She would do it, and she would feel no remorse about literally unmanning him. Given the circumstances, he would keep his eyes on hers.

"Now, one more time: what did we do?"

"We did nothing, Myranda. If you will recall, last night I offered to give you a massage, an offer that you accepted, albeit with some reluctance. I was in the middle of this massage when you apparently fell asleep. There was nothing more, I assure you." He would not mention that he had considered waking her with soft kisses before making love to her the rest of the night—the admission would cost him dearly.

"You're willing to swear to that?"

"You have me completely at your mercy, Warden. I have no reason to lie to you."

She glared at him for several more long moments, the knife pressed against his manhood. But he wasn't lying to her. She saw that. She pulled the knife away and leaned away from him, pulling the blanket back around her body.

Zevran couldn't help the large sigh of relief as the sting of the blade left that most sensitive part of his body. For a moment he'd thought she would unman him out of pure spite. She was like one of the many vipers of Antiva, and he knew he had been lucky this time. Finding another blanket, he pulled it quickly over himself. "If you don't mind my saying so," he said after several moments of silence, "I fail to see how it matters. You've taken very little interest in Alistair of late."

"I've been trying protect him from me."

The elf lifted an eyebrow at this. "Other than a knife to the sword, as it were, I'm not sure what you are protecting him from."

Myranda looked away. "I've been selfish," she said. "I'll only hurt him if I stay with him. I'm a Grey Warden; I can't be selfish. I shouldn't have let myself fall in love with him... and I shouldn't have let him love me."

He stared at her as if she was mad. "You realize, of course, that one of you could die today."

She looked up at him, eyes wide with partial horror.

"If the Crows have taught me nothing else, Myranda, they taught me that one must experience life to its fullest while it is here. Fate is a tricky whore, and pleasure must be taken from her while one can obtain it. If bedding him makes you happy—and it seems at one time it did—then you should do so."

Myranda stared at him. He was right... this was a Blight. It could be the end of Ferelden as they knew it. Happiness was fleeting in the world, especially as the darkness surged from the south to consume everything, and yet she had found it in Alistair... and she had let Wynne take it from her. "Oh... I've got to go talk to him!" she said, grabbing the top of her underclothes and her shirt and spinning away from Zevran to pull them hurriedly on. She pulled on her leggings with equal haste and thrust her feet into her boots before exiting the tent.

A quick preview of the camp failed to reveal him, though their tent had been packed. She frowned and looked again, smiling as Baby trotted up to her with her sword belt in his mouth. "Hello, Baby," she said with a smile, rubbing him as she took the belt from him. "How's my good boy?"

Baby barked and licked her hand.

"Have you seen Alistair this morning?"

The dog whined and looked over his shoulder toward a small scrub of trees, from which Alistair was just returning.

"Alistair!" she called, jogging over to him. She stopped when he turned, a cold look in his eyes that barely masked his hurt and the betrayal he obviously felt. The words turned to ash in her mouth and she just stared at him, noting the dark circles under his eyes until he turned away and trudged toward the west. She could do nothing but follow.

 

 

The tension in the air that day was so heavy that it seemed to burden them all down. They seemed to move at a snail's pace. Myranda tried to talk to Alistair several times, but he always brushed away her attempts. By evening she was filled with overwhelming resentment and despair: she may have lost the one person she truly cared about in this world—the man who was quite possibly the love of her life—and it was all her fault.

No, she decided at supper that night, looking around at the faces of her companions. It was _Wynne's_ fault. Wynne with her "grandmotherly" concern and advice... claiming to just be "looking out for them." She had been set on destroying her relationship, and Maker damn her, she may have succeeded. The mage looked up and Myranda shot her a glare colder than the freezing wind blowing through the camp before returning her attention to her meal, though she found no pleasure in the food.

A half-hour later, Alistair walked over to her. "Can we talk for a moment?" he asked. "Alone?"

"Of course." She followed him out of the camp, into the woods and out of sight of the others. She frowned when he turned back to look at her, his expression unusually solemn.

"Let me ask you something. A personal question."

Myranda's eyebrow quirked upward. "What kind of personal question?"

Alistair sighed. "I'm wondering about... well, about Zevran, really," he said. "It seems like the two of you have become quite... friendly."

"I suppose we have." She grinned a little, hoping to lighten the situation. "You aren't jealous, are you?" she teased.

"No," he said, not looking at her. "No, I'm not jealous."

The teasing smile left her lips. He _was_ jealous. Oh, this was bad.

"I'm just curious," he was saying. "Maybe it's inappropriate of me to ask, but what are your intentions towards him?"

"My...?" Myranda couldn't believe what she was hearing.

"Is it very serious?" he asked in a rush. "I mean, I know he's more experienced and all, but I was wondering if you... well..." his voice trailed off as he glanced back at her. "If you'll tell me, that is...."

"I have no intentions toward Zevran," she said. "He's a friend, that's all."

"Really?" Alistair thought he would pass out, or at least collapse, in sheer relief. "I was under the impression that the two of you were romantically involved."

" _What_?! No! No, there's no relationship there beyond friendship." She paused. "Not for lack of trying on _his_ part, of course."

"Oh, good. I would have said something sooner, but... I didn't know how to put it without sounding... you know."

"Jealous." They said the word at the same time. Myranda smiled a little and shook her head.

Alistair sighed again, bracing himself for his other question. "So now that I got that off my chest, let me ask something else."

"All right."

"Do you have any feelings towards me? _Real_ feelings?"

Myranda looked at him. "Alistair, you know that I do," she said softly. "I care for you quite deeply."

He smiled a little. "I'd hoped that was the case."

"Of _course_ I do. You know that."

"What about Zevran?" he pressed, the smile fading from his lips.

"What about him? I told you, he's just a friend."

"I don't like the idea of leading him on."

Myranda smirked. "You're not leading him on," she teased.

He frowned. "You know what I mean," he said. "Either you're with him or you're with me."

"You say that like I would actually consider being with him. You honestly think a man like Zevran could turn me away from you?"

"Well... we wouldn't be having this conversation if I didn't."

Myranda frowned as he looked away. "Alistair, I _meant_ what I said to you before. You are the only one who truly knows me and my heart. You rescued me from a despair I thought I could never escape. You've given me a reason to smile again and I love you." She reached up, turning his head to force him to look at her. "I love you," she repeated. " _Only_ you. There is no decision for me to make. And, even if there were, it would have already been made. I choose you, now and always."

Alistair smiled in pure relief. "Thank you," he breathed. "I am a lucky man, don't I know it."

"Now what brought this on all of a sudden?"

He sighed. "It's... not important."

"Alistair..."

"He makes you laugh," he said in a rush. "It seemed you were talking and laughing together a lot, and I... I don't know. It sounds stupid, but I didn't like it. And I felt like you were pulling away from me. We even stopped sleeping together... or rather that was all we did. You wouldn't even let me touch you. Which is fine... I don't mind if we don't... I mean... but I couldn't figure out why. And then last night you spent the night with him..."

"I did not have sex with Zevran," she interrupted.

"You were in his tent..."

"He was giving me a massage," she said, "and I fell asleep."

"Really?"

She nodded. "I threatened to gut him this morning until he assured me that nothing had happened."

"And you believed him?"

"He was quite truthful when I endangered something he holds dear."

Alistair winced, though he could see her doing it.

"And as for the rest, yes, he makes me laugh, and it does not sound stupid that you felt threatened by that. You had to work a lot harder for it because when we met I wasn't in a position that I wanted to laugh. Zevran's had it a little easier because I was already so happy when we met." She lifted an eyebrow at him. "And you know why I just wanted to sleep and nothing else last week, don't you?" She smiled and sighed softly at his baffled look. "I was with my... my Moon Blood," she explained, determined not to be embarrassed about it. "And while I suppose technically we could have... it would have been messy. My breasts also become quite sore at that time so that they hurt with even the slightest touch."

"So that's why you..." his voice trailed off as she nodded. He reviewed everything that had happened to them with her side of the story and realized suddenly what a fool he'd been. "Damn, I feel stupid."

"Don't. It's my fault... I should have told you."

"I just... I thought I was losing you."

Myranda frowned and hugged him, molding her body against his. "Oh, darling," she murmured. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to make you worry."

"I'm just glad I haven't lost you," he whispered, holding her tightly. "It would kill me to lose you."

"You aren't going to lose me. I'd rather kill myself than leave you." She nuzzled his neck gently, breathing in his scent. "Wynne told me a month or so ago that this... that we have the potential for disaster," she murmured. "She told me that I may end up hurting you unintentionally if we continued like we had. It scared me. I was so tangled up in you—my emotions, my feelings, everything—that it frightened me. After I've lost everyone else I love... I didn't want to hurt you and I couldn't bear the thought of losing you. I thought... maybe if I could pull away a little that I wouldn't have to see you get hurt because of me." She curled tighter against him. "And now I have hurt you.  I'm so sorry."

Alistair tightened his arms around her, fighting a bitter resentment that pulsed through his veins at the thought that the elder mage had caused Myranda so much pain. He would have expected it from Morrigan, but _Wynne_?  "Why would she say that?"

"I think she was concerned... she said that love is ultimately selfish, and it was possible that it would cause us to neglect our duty. She told me there was a risk that you'd get hurt if we kept up our relationship." She looked up at him. "I don't want you to get hurt because of me," she said. "I'm terrified of hurting you."

"I know you wouldn't do anything of the sort," he assured her. He paused before adding, "You know, unless you hit me for being an idiot or something." It was to his great relief that she laughed softly.

"That wasn't what I meant."

"I know what you meant," he assured her, leaning his forehead against hers.

"I don't care what they say," Myranda murmured. "I don't care if it's selfish.  We could die tomorrow... and this may be the end of Ferelden as we know it."  She lifted a hand to his face. "I can't do this without you, and I won't let you be taken from me. I love you more than anything in this world." She stared at him for a moment. "I would fight the Maker Himself to keep you with me," she whispered.

He ran the backs of his fingers down her cheek and then, unable to resist, leaned forward to kiss her, wrapping his arms around her. She returned it instantly, pressing her body against him in a way that made his mind reel as her arms slid around his shoulders. She kissed him like it was the first time: slowly and deeply, almost shyly slipping her tongue between his lips to explore his mouth. She started to pull away after what felt like only a few moments and he pulled her tighter against him, kissing her hard and thrusting his tongue into her mouth to taste what he had thought he never would again. She moaned in surprise but melted completely against him. And it was she who continued the kiss when he started to pull away several long minutes later.

A mutual need for air brought them both out of the kiss, panting heavily for breath. They fell into another, shorter kiss after a few moments... then another and another.

"Now," Alistair breathed after several moments of this, lifting his hand to her face, "let's get back to... what we were up to before. Lest I forget why we're here."

Myranda felt a smile curling the corners of her mouth. "Would that be so bad?" she asked. "To forget why we're here for a while?"

A grin slowly crept up his lips. "Well... maybe not."

She smiled mysteriously at him. "So how would you like to join me in my tent?"

Alistair made a great show of looking surprised. "Join you? In your tent?"

"Mm hmm."

"What can I say? Your wish is my command, my lady."

She giggled and walked her fingers up his chest. "You," she said, tapping him gently on the nose, "are a bad, bad man."

"That I am."

Her soft laugh melted into a low moan as he kissed her again slowly and deeply. She wrapped her arms back around him as the ground again fell out from under her, clinging almost desperately to him. The soft kiss soon became passionate and hungry and Myranda suddenly felt there was too much between them—cloth and leather. She wanted all of it gone, the sooner, the better. "I think..." she managed before her lips were caught again. "I think we... we should go to bed."

"Maybe."

"Unless you plan on making love to me in the snow."

"Hmm... I vote the bed."

"Agreed," she said, grinning and pulling him back toward the camp and their tent.

 

Wynne looked up from her knitting at a soft giggle only to see Myranda pulling Alistair into their tent. She frowned a little. This would be disastrous for them. But... they both looked much happier than they had the past few weeks. And considering the murderous look Myranda had given her over supper.... Her brow furrowed and she turned her eyes back to her project while she mentally reviewed the past few weeks.

 

*~*~*~*~*

 

Myranda ducked into their tent, spinning around to fall into Alistair's arms and into another soft, deep kiss. She moaned softly as she slipped her tongue into his mouth, wrapping her arms around him and barely noticing the pins had been pulled from her hair until she felt the braids tumble down her back. These were untied mere moments later and she moaned again when his fingers dove into the golden mass, pulling her harder into the kiss. She slid her hands over his back before starting to slide them under his shirt, only to have her wrists caught before he pulled out of their kiss.

"Wait," he whispered. He kissed her again briefly before reaching for the hem of her shirt and pulling it up and over her head. He smirked a little as he was pulling it off her hair. "Hm... maybe I did that in the wrong order."

Myranda giggled before pulling her hair free, allowing him to toss the article away... where it landed on Baby, who was just trotting into the tent. The dog shook his head and woofed softly at them as they laughed before laying down at the foot of their bedroll "Aww, poor Baby," Myranda said, taking the fur-lined cloak Leliana had bought her and laying it over him. "It's cold out there, isn't it?"

Baby barked and licked her hand in appreciation.

"He already has a fur coat and he gets a blanket too?" Alistair asked with slight incredulity.

"It's short fur," Myranda retorted as Baby snorted at the question. "I notice you haven't been sleeping without a blanket recently."

Alistair chuckled at this. "Fair enough," he said, before catching her hand. "Now come here," he murmured, pulling her back into his arms and kissing her deeply. She surrendered to it immediately, pressing her soft, wonderful body against him as their tongues dueled inside her mouth.

Myranda whimpered as he pulled slowly out of the kiss, tilting her head a little as he bent to trail soft, tantalizing kisses along her jaw. The slightly rough feel of his clothing against her bare skin was indescribably exciting. Her hands wandered over his still-clothed shoulders and back as he kissed her neck, pulling gently on his shirt, wanting him to remove it, but he ignored her silent plea and continued to kiss along her throat. She shuddered violently as he ran his hands lightly down her arms before sliding them around her waist and up her back, feeling gooseflesh rising over her whole body, her nipples hardening as well.

"Cold?" he asked, his warm breath caressing her skin as his fingers worked the clasp of her undergarment.

"No," she breathed, whimpering softly as he ran his tongue slowly along her collarbone, feeling the linen garment that cupped her breasts suddenly loosen and fall off her body to the ground. She bit her lip as he slowly trailed his kisses lower, looking down and watching as he ran his tongue completely around the base of her right breast before sliding it up to her nipple, flicking it before he lowered his mouth over it. She moaned softly as he suckled her, cradling his head against her. She breathed his name as she pulled again on his shirt, but still he ignored her, seemingly intent on pleasuring her body as his hands wandered slowly over her back and occasionally dove into her hair. After a long time he released her, and her left nipple tingled with anticipation as he trailed his tongue slowly around the base of her breast. She whimpered when he paused, arching her back and pulling him toward her until he took her nipple into his mouth, gasping as he sucked hard and greedily. She moaned louder, clutching his shirt tightly at the intense pleasure washing through her. His soft moan of reply sent pleasurable vibrations coursing through her and she suppressed a delightful shudder, whispering his name again.

Myranda was panting softly with her growing arousal as he knelt before her, kissing his way down to her stomach, his hands sliding down her back and around her hips before untying the laces of her leggings. She shuddered as they were pushed down around her ankles before she heard Alistair swear softly to himself and start to remove her boots. She grinned and looked down at him as she stepped out of her boots and leggings, watching as he kissed his way slowly up her calves as she stood nearly naked before him. "I don't think it's fair that you're still fully clothed," she said softly.

"Lesson three is patience," he murmured teasingly against her skin.

"No. I refuse to have—" the words were cut off in a gasp and she bit her lip against the loud moan that rose in her throat as he brushed a soft kiss against her thigh. "Oh, _Maker_..." she breathed.

Alistair let his hands slowly follow as he kissed up her inner thighs, delighting in the silky smoothness of her skin as she spread her legs apart. He could feel the heat radiating off her skin and could smell her arousal—something that excited him more than he thought possible. She always smelled so sweet... he had started to wonder if she would taste just as good. Tonight seemed as good a time as any to find out... if she would let him. He slowly trailed his lips along where her leg met her hip, listening to her soft lustful whimpers before he gently kissed her through her small clothes. The fabric was soaked from her lust and the barest taste it gave only made him hungry for more—a sentiment she must have shared as she spread her legs wider apart and moaned loudly. Hooking his thumbs under the garment, he slowly pulled it down off her body, his fingertips grazing along her skin. She shuddered, though he thought it less from cold and more from arousal as she stepped out of the garment and spread her legs apart as his hands slid up her thighs.

He nuzzled the patch of soft blonde curls between her legs, breathing her scent deeply before brushing the softest of kisses against her. Listening to her heavy panting above him, he slowly and gently kissed his way down between her thighs, drinking in her scent as he kissed her lips there. Encouraged by her loud moan, he continued to explore, sliding his tongue along her before drawing one of her lips into his mouth, sucking gently and enjoying the feel and the taste of her—and the sound of her moans above him. He did the same thing on the other side, taking his time to truly savor her.

Myranda was quickly forgetting everything except the sensations of her body as he licked and sucked and explored her. She never thought he would pleasure her body this way. Though she wasn't about to complain—oh, _no_... complaining would make him stop. And she didn't want it to stop. She moaned as he lapped at her, gasping when his tongue flicked against her sweet spot and sent lightning bolts through her entire nervous system. She bit her lip to keep from crying out as he repeated the motion again and again, rocking her hips gently. He shifted slightly and pushed gently on her knees before she lifted her leg to wrap around his shoulders. She panted heavily as his hands slid up her thighs to grip her hips, holding her with gentle firmness before he plunged his tongue into her.

Her eyes rolled back before closing as his tongue thrust into her body, a loud moan escaping her throat. Dearest Andraste, he was doing the most _amazing_ things to her... and she never wanted it to stop. His own loud moan of pleasure shot through her, lighting up her nerves and causing her to moan even louder. The part of her that cared about being overheard was quickly being drowned out by her sudden, voracious, insatiable lust and she found her soft whimpers and cries were quickly growing in volume as he thrust his rigid tongue into her again and again, reaching deeper than she thought possible before it relaxed to explore inside her body. She rocked her hips, climbing up toward peak.

She whimpered in disappointment when his tongue suddenly withdrew from her, only to gasp loudly as he moved up to her sweet spot, biting her lip hard as he gently circled it with just the tip of his tongue before drawing it into his mouth. She cried out at this before bringing her hand to her mouth and biting on her finger to keep from screaming, her whimpers growing in volume and pitch as he teased the sensitive bud. "Oh, more..." she moaned. " _More_..." She reached down and guided one of his hands from her hip between her thighs before rocking over him, groaning when he slipped one finger inside her. "Yes," she moaned, her breath catching when he slid a second finger into her. "Yes... _yes_..."

Alistair was lost. He knew nothing but her: the sound of her pleasure, the feel of her body, the scent of her arousal, the taste... oh, the taste of her was _unbelievable_. He sucked a little harder on her sweet spot, hearing her cry out with pleasure and rock her hips harder and faster. Her muscles tightened around his fingers—a sign he recognized as part of her climb toward sexual peak. Encouraged and wanting to give her that pleasure, he plunged his fingers deep inside her as he flicked the tip of his tongue faster around and across her bud, moaning loudly as she responded instantly.

All at once it happened: she gasped sharply, her back arched and her whole body tensed for what felt like an eternity before she crested the wave with a loud cry.

"Oh... oh _Maker_..." she moaned before wincing as Alistair kept up his vigil. "Less," she said. "Lighten... lighten up..."

"Sorry," he whispered, sliding his tongue back down between her legs to gently lap up the excess fluid as he drew his fingers out of her.

"Maker's breath... don't apologize." She panted heavily, shivering not only at the sensation of his tongue as it dipped teasingly back inside her but at the drops of sweat that slid along her spine and down the backs of her thighs. She shivered from the extreme pleasure, her whole body feeling like it was on fire, hungry and aching for more, though her legs suddenly felt incredibly weak. She wavered over him, struggling to keep her balance in the aftermath of the extreme high. "Alistair," she breathed. "Alistair, I... I can't..."

He pulled away and looked up at her. "Can't?"

"I can't stand up any longer," she said, feeling how her knees were about to give out on her.

Alistair chuckled softly. "Then sit," he said, taking her hips and guiding her down to the bedroll.

Myranda lay back, panting heavily as her body quivered from her extreme sexual awareness. She watched as he finally undressed, the muscles of his chest and arms rippling with the movements. An undeniable ache and longing clawed at her as his body was slowly revealed to her: his broad, powerful shoulders, his strong arms, his wide, smooth chest and flat stomach. She licked her lips as he removed the rest of his clothing, her eyes sliding down appreciatively. She knew the strength in his legs, the power in his hips... and, from his obvious arousal, she would know them again. And again... and _again_. She couldn't fight the contented sigh that escaped her. Maker's breath, he was _gorgeous_. And he was all hers.

She held out her arms to him. "Come to me, child," she murmured teasingly. "Let me show you Eternity."

He smiled before laying beside her, pulling her close. "Your desire is my command," he whispered before kissing her softly.

Myranda moaned loudly into his mouth as she tasted a hint of herself on his lips, her tongue seeking out and playing with his as the kiss deepened. She pulled him back against her as he started to break the kiss, pressing her naked body against his, loving the wonderful feel of his skin against hers. She breathed his name when he broke the kiss gently, moaning as he brushed the lightest of kisses along her jaw and down her neck. She tilted her head back, her hands sliding over his body before a sudden thought came to her unbidden. "You realize that line could refer to death."

"Hm?"

"'In my arms lies Eternity.' That could refer to death."

He pulled away a little to look into her eyes, cradling her face in his hands. "If the Void beyond the Fade is as beautiful as you... and as wonderful as this feeling... then I would gladly go there for you."

She smiled a little. "Don't ever leave me," she whispered. "I want you right here, forever."

They fell back into a soft, deep kiss, and Alistair moaned as she rocked her hips against him. He had thought she would need more time to recover, but obviously by the insistence of her rocking, her lust and desire at least matched his own—if it didn't surpass it. His hands roamed over her, caressing all the places he knew would make her rock against him harder and moaning when she did so. He knew he couldn't keep up this teasing for long; he _ached_ for her, to be inside her body. He slid along her, even this preparation a torturous tease, before shifting to push into her, moaning when her muscles gave way and he found himself buried deep inside her.

Myranda gasped softly as he entered before releasing it in a breathy moan. They lay still for a few long moments, and she marveled at the feeling of him so deep inside her body. "I feel like I should say something," she murmured into his ear after a long while.

"Like what?"

"I don't know... 'nice to have you back,' maybe?" she offered with a small laugh.

He chuckled softly. "It's good to be back." He kissed her softly. "It's been too long."

"Yes," she breathed before kissing him deeply, pulling him on top of her as she rolled onto her back. " _Far_ too long."

The kiss that followed was hot and deep, and Alistair let himself drown in it as he slid his hands down her sides to her curvy hips and back up, rocking gently to move inside her. Her moan of pleasure was like the sweetest music, and, by the Maker, he needed more.

Myranda gripped his shoulders tightly as his rhythm increased, moaning into his mouth with each thrust. She broke their heated kiss and tilted her head back, panting heavily and crying out her pleasure as she rocked her hips up to meet his, driving him deeper into her body. She writhed beneath him as his hands slid over her skin, sending her toward madness. Her hand found his and clutched it tightly, interlacing their fingers.

Alistair kissed her neck when she tilted her head back, unable to get enough of her—the taste or the feel. He had thought to take his time, making love to her slowly and affectionately. But enveloped by her silken heat, her hips rocking in a counter-rhythm to his own, he found himself thrusting into her harder and faster, pure lust clawing at him and driving him toward release. "Oh, Andraste," he breathed, gripping her thigh as she wrapped her leg around him to pull her hips up to meet his. "Myranda..."

"Yes," she moaned. "Oh, _Maker_... ah... _ahh_..." She bit her lip to keep from calling out any louder.

"Yes... Maker, _yes_..." He looked down at her, watching how her body rocked beneath him with every thrust, her muscles contracting around him. This made him work harder, not only because her body was tightening up, but because he knew that she was approaching a climax. "Myranda," he called softly, listening to her whimpers growing louder and higher in pitch, feeling his own release building. "Oh, Myranda— _ah_..."

Myranda let herself go, relinquishing all control and pulling her hips up to meet each of his powerful thrusts. "Yes!" she cried. "Yes... _yes_... oh, I'm so... close... _ahhh!_ " She gasped as she crested the wave, her whole body tensing. For a few glorious moments there was just sensation—his skin against hers, his weight, the heat between her thighs—until she crashed down into release, crying out loudly. She gasped softly when he tensed above her and she felt him release inside her body a few seconds later, sighing contentedly as he nearly collapsed on top of her. "By Andraste," she whispered around heavy panting. "That was..." her voice trailed off as she tried to think clearly enough to come up with an appropriate description.

"Amazing?" Alistair offered.

"Amazing, yes. Incredible, fantastic, unbelievable..." she shook her head a little. "Take your pick."

He gently kissed the sensitive place where her neck met her shoulder. "I like 'unbelievable'," he murmured.

She moaned softly. "I like that, too. Let's use that one." She tilted his head up to kiss him deeply but gently.

They lay kissing softly and slowly for a long time before he finally pulled away from her, both sharing a sigh of disappointment. They lay still for many more long minutes before Alistair noted the chill in the air against his sweat-dampened skin, and Myranda started to shiver. He reached over and grabbed his cloak, laying it over them before pulling up the blanket as well.

Myranda shivered slightly, the feel of the fox fur lining against her bare skin unbelievably exhilarating. She snuggled against him as he wrapped his arm around her, breathing a contented sigh before kissing him again softly. "I love you," she whispered.

"And I love you," he murmured. "More than anything."

 

Myranda lay, happy and sated, nearly purring with contentment as she basked in a wondrous afterglow. She curled against Alistair's side as he lay on his back, smiling as his arm tightened slightly around her waist. A soft sigh escaped her and she draped her arm across his chest, a slight shiver coursing through her as he lifted his free hand to run his fingertips slowly and gently along her arm. "You do realize, of course, how dangerous this is," she murmured.

Alistair looked at her then. "How do you mean?"

"You're incredibly distracting." She laughed a little, softly. "How am I supposed to stop the Blight when nearly all I can think about is crawling into bed with you?"

He smiled a little and kissed her forehead.

"So... what now? Where do we go from here?"

Alistair sighed. "Wow. You don't hold back on the hard questions, huh?"

She looked up at him, concerned.

"I don't know where this is going," he said finally. "I guess Wynne's right. We have the Blight to think of first, don't we? Everything else just seems so... distant."

"I won't let you go, Alistair," Myranda whispered. "No matter what."

He frowned and rolled onto his side to face her, lowering his head to rest his forehead against hers. "Let's hope we have that option," he murmured. "I don't want to lose you, but..." He closed his eyes and held her tightly for a few moments before speaking again. "This isn't really the time for this conversation," he said. "Please, let's... just talk about this another time," he whispered. "I don't want to think about it right now."

She sighed and nodded, tightening her arms around him as she snuggled closer to him. "You're right," she murmured. "We're here now. Let's concentrate on that." She paused. "But is she right about everything?" she whispered. "Are we setting ourselves up for disaster?"

Alistair tightened his arms around her as if to never let go. "I don't know why she would say that," he said finally, "but I think she's wrong. And even if she's right—even if we are setting ourselves up to fail, I don't care. I can face this with you... I couldn't do it without you."

"But am I being selfish?"

He pulled away and stared at her in shock. "Myranda, you are one of the least selfish people I know. You are a wonderful person, and if we have this time together, why shouldn't we enjoy it?" He smiled gently. "Selfish," he admonished, shaking his head a little. "I find it hard to believe that a selfish person would do so much to try to protect someone else from being hurt."

She smiled. "Thank you."

"I love you, Myranda."

"And I love you," she whispered. "Very much."

"I _love_ you."

Myranda smiled and breathed a soft laugh. "Yes, darling. I love you, too."

"I just... I'm not sure I ever told you before."

"You did." She brushed her fingertips along the line of his jaw. "But it is nice to hear."

"Then I love you." He smiled as she giggled softly. "Maker's breath, I love the sound of your laugh."

"So much that you want to keep it all to yourself," she teased.

An embarrassed look crossed his face. "I still feel like an idiot for feeling jealous about a little thing like that."

"Hardly little. It was important to you. And besides, I did the same thing."

"Hm?"

She laughed softly in embarrassment. "Do you remember after we left Lothering when I told you that I was having second thoughts about bringing Leliana with us?"

Alistair was quiet for a minute, thinking back. "I do remember that. You didn't want to bring her along because she was pretty."

"And she made you laugh." She propped herself up on one elbow as he lay on his back again, looking down at him. "Although I wasn't jealous," she said with a mocking sternness. "Why should you like her, even though she's pretty and bubbly and has a nice laugh when I'm cold and cruel and incapable of laughing?"

He smiled a little. "You were never cruel... and I never thought she was as pretty as you are."

Myranda smiled. "You're only saying that because it's true," she teased.

That earned her a laugh. "And that's one of the many reasons why I love you," he said.

"And how many are there?"

He smiled, lifting his hand to cup her cheek. "I keep losing count," he said, running his fingers back through her hair, "and I can count pretty high."

"Tell me... please?"

"Let's see..." His voice trailed off in thought before he grinned at her. "I love how your nose wrinkles whenever you're laughing to yourself."

Myranda blinked in surprise before she giggled softly, watching him smile when she wrinkled her nose involuntarily.

"Yes... just like that. I love the sound of your laugh... the warmth and joy of it. I feel happier when you're laughing." He leaned up and kissed her forehead gently. "I love your beautiful green eyes... the way your hair looks like a waterfall of solid gold when it's down... the curve of your face." He looked at her for several quiet moments, a soft smile on his lips. "I love the way you play with Baby, and how you defend your friends. I love your strength and your cleverness and your devotion. I even love how you would sometimes wake me up in the middle of the night just for sex. And I love waking up next to you in the morning. But, most of all, I love that I was lucky enough for you to love me the same way I love you." He kissed her lips. "And I do love you, Myranda," he whispered.

She smiled. "I love you," she murmured. "I love how you always try to find ways to make me laugh. I love the way you blush and I love how awkward you were when you were consciously trying to win me over." She giggled as an embarrassed look crossed his face. "You're so sweet and charming, how could a girl possibly resist?"

Alistair smiled a little at her.

"I love the way your eyes light up when you look at me. I love your smile and your laugh... I even love how bitingly sarcastic you can be. I love your skill and your strength and your undying loyalty. I love how you are a perfect gentleman, worthy of the highest title of nobility in Ferelden..." her voice trailed off as she lay back down and snuggled closer to him, continuing in a low murmur, "and how, when we're alone, you kiss me like you're starving for the taste of me. And I love how, after you undress me, you always look at me as if it's the first time you've seen me. I love how you touch me so gently, as if you think I'm fragile or I'm not really here..." her voice trailed off again for a moment. "And I love how you don't just have sex... you make love to me—and yes," she said when the puzzled look crossed his face, "there is a difference."

"What's the difference?" he murmured.

"Sex is a physical desire... a means to procreate. Certainly, there's pleasure in it, but it only lasts in that moment. _Animals_ have sex." She smiled a little. "That's not what you do to me... not _only_ what you do to me. You enjoy it... savor every part of the act and of me. It lasts longer and feels sweeter. I feel... worshiped... and sometimes it makes me feel like I don't deserve you."

"I couldn't want anyone else," he said, running his fingers back through her hair.

She grinned. "You're just saying that..."

"I'm serious, Myranda," he interrupted. "If-if there is a future after the Blight, I want you in mine."

The grin softened to a loving smile. "I could never want anyone else," she said. "I love you."

They fell into another soft, deep kiss that slowly turned their thoughts toward more base desires. Their hands moved slowly over each other's bodies, caressing everywhere they could reach. Myranda moaned softly as he sucked her lower lip into his mouth, running his tongue over it before nibbling gently on it. He pulled away slowly, releasing her lip at the last moment before kissing her again. She lapped at the parting of his lips until he opened his mouth with a soft moan, breaking the kiss gently as his own tongue met hers. The two explored each other slowly and though Myranda leaned forward to resume their kiss, he always pulled away just enough to allow their tongues to continue their passionate duel. She whimpered softly at the tease and found that he immediately pressed his lips against hers again, his tongue sliding along hers and into her mouth in a way that made her moan loudly. She gently pulled him on top of her as she rolled onto her back, never breaking their intense kiss.

When they finally pulled away from each other, Myranda opened her eyes again, losing herself in the warm hazel pools above her. Maker have mercy on her, she loved him so much. They had known each other for so little time, and yet she knew him better than anyone she'd spent most of her life with. And he knew her... better than she knew herself. Laying here, staring beyond his eyes and into his soul, she saw just how much he loved her. His was a love that bordered on religious devotion and reverence. She felt worshiped in his love because he _did_ worship her... body and soul. Her eyes suddenly welled with tears. It was a love she felt unworthy of and was sure she didn't deserve.

Alistair smiled a little, recognizing the tears for what they were as he looked at her. He showered her face and neck with soft, gentle kisses as her eyes closed and she wept silently, whispering all the words he'd longed to say to her: how he loved her and needed her... how dark the world seemed except for her... how he wanted nothing else but to stay beside her, always. She _did_ deserve his love because she was a wonderful and beautiful woman inside and out, the very embodiment of joy and love, and he would love her until his dying day. He kissed her until the tears ceased to fall, murmuring that if either of them was undeserving, it was him: how could he have hoped that she would feel so strongly about him, that she would rather be hurt herself than cause him pain?

Myranda opened her eyes, falling back into his and basking in the warmth of his soul. Wynne had told her that love was selfish, but she was wrong. Love... _their_ love was beyond that. She was completely and solely devoted to him, this much was true, but it was because he was her strength. He was the reason she could carry out her duty to Ferelden. His love kept her going... she knew that now. She cradled his face in her hands, smiling a little as she wrapped herself up completely in him. She didn't care anymore. She loved him and needed him and wanted him, and nothing would ever change that. She leaned up and kissed him deeply for several long minutes before pulling slowly away, falling back into his eyes as she rocked her hips against his. A low moan of pleasure escaped her lips as he slid back inside her.

They made love slowly, simply enjoying the feel of one another as they rocked together, staring deeply into each other's eyes and cradling each other gently. They laid everything at each other's feet, feeling a deeply intimate connection unlike anything they'd shared. There was no urgency about the act itself, no need to reach a peak of sexual feeling—though Myranda felt she had several, each somehow greater than the last. Sometimes only the slightest touch would rouse her to a sexual high and she would just skim the edge before coming back down, satisfied, yet somehow still hungry for more. Alistair would pause each time she gasped and shuddered, kissing her slowly and deeply before pulling away to stare into her eyes again and resuming their slow lovemaking. She did the same for him as he reached several small climaxes of his own, holding him as he panted softly, trying to bring his breathing back to a normal rhythm before he would start thrusting slowly inside her again. This continued for nearly two hours as they rose together slowly until, unable to hold back the sexual energy they'd built, they climbed toward a powerful mutual climax. Everything went still except for their bodies as they stared at each other, seeing what was happening between them.

"Alistair," Myranda breathed, clutching his shoulders tightly as she started to spiral completely out of control, though their pace had not quickened. "Oh, blessed Maker..."

"Myranda..." he managed. "Dear, _sweet_ Andraste...." He stared deeply into her bright green eyes, desperate for her to see the truth. "I love you, Myranda," he whispered. "Oh, I _love_ you."

"I... I..." Myranda never got the phrase past her lips, though she knew that he saw the depths of her love in her eyes.

Their bodies suddenly stiffened and they hovered there on the brink before they moved almost as one to allow their mouths to meet. The kiss muffled their cries as they moved together and crashed over the edge into pure orgasmic bliss and powerful release.

Myranda's mind reeled as his seed spilled into her body for the second time that night, feeling the true depths of their connection—his heartbeat was hers, every breath he took brought air into her own body. She fell out of the kiss, but kept her eyes closed, savoring the richness of her heightened sensitivity: the cool dampness of every drop of sweat that dripped onto and along her skin, the heat and weight of his body on top of hers, the movement of the air around them as they panted slowly, and the indescribable sensation of her muscles wrapped tightly and lovingly around him as he remained buried deep inside her body, his heartbeat throbbing in her as his essence spread through her womb.

"There's something else I love about you," she whispered ten minutes later as they still lay in each other's arms, joined at the hip. "You don't leave me right away after you make love to me: you stay inside me a long time afterward... and you always seem so reluctant to pull away."

"I always am." He kissed her again softly. "If there was a way to stay like this..."

"...we'd stay here forever."

"Yes."

She caught his lips in another slow, deep kiss, rocking her hips gently to feel him grinding inside her, causing him to moan softly.

"I hate to leave you," he whispered as they fell out of the kiss, "because I feel... complete... when we're together." He looked away. "I don't know if... that makes any sense."

"Like you just found a piece of your soul you didn't know was missing?"

He nodded.

She smiled a little. "Isn't that the definition of a soul mate?"

Hazel eyes snapped back to her green ones and he stared at her a moment before smiling a little. "I don't know," he murmured. "But it sounds nice." He winced as he finally did pull away from her, sighing as she whimpered softly. He ran his hand lightly along her side as he lay next to her, enjoying the smoothness of her skin. "I... can I ask you about something?"

"You can ask me anything, Alistair."

"It's... it's a personal question."

She laughed a little. "I'm not sleeping with Zevran," she said.

"No," he said, "I know." He trailed his fingertips over her face. "You mentioned your... your Moon Blood..." he started, cutting off his question when she laughed softly.

"I forget that you haven't had much experience with women," she said with a smile. She sighed then. "Every month a woman goes through a cycle. If she hasn't been with a man, or if the timing isn't right, she'll bleed for a few days... it's nature's way of letting her know she's missed another opportunity to be a mother."

"So... the bandages around your hips when we were in Denerim..."

"Yes, precisely. Some women aren't very regular, but I am. Every four weeks I have a flow. Or usually I do. I skipped the first part of Harvestmere—I was supposed to start around the time we met Zevran—and was starting to wonder if I was going to have a baby... especially after that morning I got sick."

Alistair sighed a little. "I wouldn't worry about that too much," he said, a soft note of regret in his voice. "The taint makes it nearly impossible."

" _Nearly_ impossible." She grinned teasingly at him. "So if we tried _really_ hard..." she said with a wink.

He smirked. "It's still unlikely."

"Oh." She sighed and snuggled against him. "Oh well. It will just have to be for our pleasure, then." She sensed his growing unease and quickly sought to dispel it. "And, before you ask," she said, looking into his eyes so he could see the truth, "no, this is not only about sex. You know that. How many nights have we slept together... even _before_ we became lovers?"

He smiled a little at this. "I guess you're right."

She returned the smile and kissed him before sighing again more heavily. "It's too bad that the taint makes conception difficult. I think you'd be a good father for that litter you've always wanted."

"You think so?"

She nodded. "I do." She lay still for a few moments before deciding to tell him what was on her mind. "When... when I first thought I was pregnant, I admit I was a little frightened."

Alistair looked at her, confused.

"I didn't know how it would affect me or you or what we're trying to do here. After all, I can't go into battle with an infant." She lowered her eyes and a smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. "But then I... I was so happy... to think that I'd be the mother of your child. The first of many." She lifted her eyes to his again. "I wanted to have all those children you've wished for... ten or twelve, if that's what you wanted. I _wanted_ to, because I knew it would make you so happy."

Alistair saw the tears starting to shimmer in her eyes and smiled before he kissed her gently. "I am happy," he said when he pulled away. "I have you. I don't mind if we never have a child. As long as I have you, that's all I need."

She smiled. "I love you," she murmured. "I _adore_ you. Don't ever forget that."

"I love you, too." He kissed her again, briefly, before pulling away to stare at her. "Maker's breath, sometimes I look at you and I can't breathe." He watched as she looked away shyly. "Is that normal?" he asked, causing her to look back up at him. "Feeling like... like you can't breathe... when you look at someone you love?"

She shook her head. "I don't know."

"But... but I thought you... were in love before."

Myranda sighed. "I loved Rory, yes. Sometimes when he looked at me my heart would flutter in my chest to the point that I thought it would just fly away." She propped herself up on her elbow again, looking down at him. "What I feel for you is different in every way. It's deeper... stronger. After... Before we reached the tower, there were times when you looked at me and my throat would go dry. I couldn't breathe."

"There were nights," Alistair murmured, "when I would just lay awake thinking about you. And then, if I slept, you'd haunt my dreams."

She smiled, laying back down and snuggling against him as he pulled her against him.

"Sometimes I still wonder if I'm dreaming." He leaned his head against hers, breathing the soft scent of her hair. "I'm terrified I'm going to wake up."

Myranda nuzzled his neck gently. "This isn't a dream," she whispered. "This is real... wonderfully and beautifully real."

"We just need to get rid of that pesky archdemon and then everything would be perfect."

"Yes." She tightened her arms around him before looking at him, staring deep into his eyes. "I let my relationship with Rory be broken, but I won't allow anything to come between us again. I love you more than I ever loved Rory... more than I've ever loved anyone. I need you here with me, and I will fight to keep you beside me."

Alistair kissed her hard, pulling her against him as he moved back on top of her. This time their joining was fast and hard, and Myranda kept her mouth against his to stifle her loud cries, clawing at his back as she climbed toward climax. She reached it with a gasp, every muscle in her body tightening before the tension released and she moaned loudly with pleasure before she started up toward another, higher peak. She curled up almost into a sitting position as she tensed again, pulling out of the intense kiss and opening her mouth as she tilted her head back, though no sound came out. She drew a sharp breath, releasing it in a loud cry as she reached her climax. Her cries grew louder as he continued to thrust into her, gripping her hips and tensing above her before groaning loudly as he surrendered to his own climax and release, panting heavily as he felt his essence pouring into her with every beat of his heart. He slid one hand up to cradle her head as she lay back down, moving to stretch out beside her as he kissed her gently.

A sudden burst of birdsong alerted them to the coming dawn. Myranda looked up before looking back at him again. "I've kept you up all night again," she whispered around her soft panting.

Alistair breathed a soft laugh at this. "I'd much rather this be the reason." He brought a finger to her lips when she opened her mouth. "No more apologies, my love," he said.

She kissed his fingertip gently before it pulled away. "But I should have let you sleep."

"I wasn't the only one being kept awake."

Her lips suddenly curled in a mischievous grin, rocking her hips a little. "But you were the only one being kept _up_." She giggled when he blushed predictably. "Maker, you are _adorable_ when you blush!"

He managed a small smile before kissing her softly. "Myranda?" he asked, opening his eyes to find she had kept hers closed.

"Hm?"

"I love you."

She opened her eyes and smiled. "And I love you," she said. "Always."

 

*~*~*~*~*

 

_[Firstfall 16 – Evening]_

"Good evening, Zevran."

The Antivan looked up and smiled. "Ah, good evening, Myranda. I hear that you and your Alistair have gotten a few things straight between you."

"Yes, we have," she said before noticing the wicked grin on the elf's lips and blushing. "Yes... well... I was wondering if I could ask you about something."

"Certainly," he said, waving to the place next to him in an invitation for her to sit.

"What does it take to become an assassin?"

Zevran couldn't help the dark chuckle that escaped him at this question. "Well, the _Crows_ would have you believe that it is an involved process that takes years of training, the sort that tests both your resolve and your endurance. Survive that process and maybe, just _maybe_ you're good enough to start being considered one of them." He shrugged slightly. "But quite frankly the truth is that all it requires is a desire to kill people for a living. It's surprising how well one can do in such a field."

"You did quite well, no doubt." She frowned when he lifted an eyebrow at her. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean that... _quite_ like it sounded. I meant it as a compliment. You must have done well."

"Within the Crows, I did," he said with a smile, waving away her embarrassed half-apology. "But it has been something the Crows have devoted a great deal of time to perfecting. An assassin simply specializes in striking from stealth... and in maximizing that first attack to be as lethal as possible." He looked at her pointedly. "Debilitate your foe, either by poison or by crippling their limbs, makes any follow-up combat you need to engage in that much simpler."

"You always use poison, then?"

"I do," he said with a nod. "It is not something inherent in an assassin's skills, however... merely something complementary."

Myranda smirked suddenly. "So you're dangerous with kindness _and_ poison, hm?"

Zevran shot her a startled look before a grin crossed his lips. "You have heard this before."

"My brother's wife was from Antiva."

"Your brother is a fine man with excellent taste," he said with an approving nod before returning to the original point. "Of course, the Crows like to pretend that their abilities are trade secrets, shrouded in shadows and wrapped in a blanket of mystery. So let's just keep this between you and me, shall we, hmm?"

"Your secret is safe with me." She paused for a moment, then asked, "Do you actually _enjoy_ being an assassin?"

Zevran couldn't help laughing at this question. "And why not? There are many things to enjoy about being a Crow in Antiva. You are respected. You are feared. The authorities go out of their way to overlook your trespasses. Even the rewards are nothing to turn your nose up at. As for the killing part..." his voice trailed off and he shrugged. "Well... some people simply need assassinating." He looked over at her. "Or do you disagree?"

"Oh, no," she said vehemently. "I _completely_ agree."

He laughed. "The Crows would appreciate your enthusiasm." He was quiet a moment as he pondered the idea. "I often find myself the instrument of fate, ending these lives for one necessity or another. I console myself with the notion that most of them had it coming."

"I see."

"As far as enjoying the act of killing itself," he went on with another nonchalant shrug, "why not? There is a certain artistry to the deed, the pleasure of sinking your blade into their flesh and knowing that their life is in your hands."

Myranda imagined what it would feel like to kill Rendon Howe, the pleasure she would take from cutting out his heart with the family blade and holding it in her hand before squeezing the life out of it. "I know what you mean," she said darkly, a cruel smile crossing her lips.

"Ah, my dear, that is exactly the look that so many of my masters had when telling us about a mark." He did not mention how it did the strangest things to him... if he wanted to be completely honest the look made her incredibly desirable in a very peculiar way. "There are many things I did not enjoy about being a Crow, of course," he went on. "Having no choice, being treated as an expendable commodity, the rules... oh so many rules!" He shook his head. "But simply being an assassin? I like it just fine. I will continue to do it, if I can, even if I am not a Crow. Honestly, could you picture me doing anything else?"

Myranda smiled—a proper smile now. "Why not? You can do whatever you like."

"Whereas I am content merely doing what I happen to be good at," he replied with a smile of his own. "It's a talent that not many come by honestly, I don't see why I need not pursue it." He shrugged a little. "Of course all these thoughts are moot. Chances are still good that you and I will perish, eaten by darkspawn or slain by the Crows at some point. Very gruesomely, I imagine. But it is pleasant enough to chat about." He lifted an eyebrow at her. "Why such an interest in my being an assassin, if I may ask?"

"I... was wondering if you could teach me."

Zevran mused over this for a moment. "I suppose the Crows are already furious, yes? What harm is another tweak to their nose?" He nodded once, as if making a decision. "If you wish to be trained in the basics of an assassin, I can certainly show you."

"Really?" Myranda asked, her face lighting up. "You mean that?"

"Certainly," he said with a grin. "It shall be fun! I will make it fun, I promise."

"Can we start now?"

Zevran laughed at this. "I had no idea you would be such a willing pupil, Myranda." He looked at her. "But will this not get me into trouble with your Alistair? He is quite territorial where you are concerned."

"He knew I was going to ask you to teach me. He's a little nervous about my learning, but agreed that it may be a good idea for me to have the skills. As long as the training doesn't include long hours in your tent neither he nor I have any problems with it."

He sighed in mock disappointment. "Ah well. I suppose I shall have to leave out the ritual examination of your magnificent body to see if you could truly become an assassin."

"You saw quite enough of my body last week," Myranda said. "Now, what do I need to know?"

 

_[Firstfall 19 – Evening]_

Alistair moved slightly closer to the fire, almost wishing he could sit _in_ the flames. Maybe then he'd start to feel warm. It had snowed heavily all day, finally letting up late that afternoon. The clouds had broken in time for them to witness the glorious sunset over Lake Calenhad before the brilliant oranges and reds faded into soft, gentle pinks, purples and vivid blues. He and Myranda had wandered away together as the others set up camp, holding hands as they started their circuitous patrol... one that they resumed nearly a half-hour later after being swept away by the romance of the setting. The only threat they encountered had been a small pack of wolves, which, after being defeated, offered a variety from the rabbit they had been getting.

Now, after dinner, Myranda was working with Zevran on her assassin training. The elf was pleased with her progress and had said as much to him that afternoon, laughing when he had mentioned that he wasn't sure if that was good or not. Everyone else had retired to their tents, as much to escape the chill as for sleep. After the sun had gone down so had the temperature of the air: the clouds were gone and a bitterly cold wind shifted through the camp, making the freezing temperature of the air feel even colder.

He looked up as Zevran passed by on the other side of the fire. "Did you leave Myranda in the woods alone?"

"No, no," the elf assured him. "I imagine she will be along shortly." He grinned. "You worry too much, my friend Alistair. Myranda is a very competent woman... she can take care of herself, you know."

"Yes, I know." He gasped as a hand suddenly clamped over his mouth, tensing before he felt soft lips on his neck.

"Dead again," Myranda's voice whispered in his ear, teasing her fingertips across his neck in a motion of slitting his throat.

Alistair looked at Zevran, who chuckled softly to himself before bowing slightly and ducking into his tent.

Myranda giggled softly before taking her hand from his mouth and wrapping her arms loosely around his neck, nipping gently at his earlobe. "Really, darling. What would you do if I was a real assassin?"

"Hmm... would this be the proper time to beg for my life?"

"You can try that," she murmured, trailing kisses along his neck. "If nothing else, I'll follow Zevran's example and at least make love to you before I kill you." She slid around him to sit in his lap, straddling him. "I'm not completely unreasonable," she added with a grin as he gave her an odd look.

"I'm starting to wonder if your training with Zevran's going too far," he said.

Myranda laughed and hugged him. "It's fine," she said. "I'm just teasing."

He smiled and held her close, nuzzling her. "All right," he said after a moment. "I guess I really don't know how to ask you this."

"Ask me what?" she asked, sitting up to look at him.

"Oh, how do I say this? You'd think it would be easier, but every time I'm around you, I feel as if my head's about to explode. I-I can't think straight."

She giggled softly. "That's very sweet," she said.

"Here's the thing: being near you makes me crazy, but I can't imagine being without you. Not ever." He reached up and cupped her face in his hands. "You're the first woman I've ever spent the night with, and if I have my way you'll be the last."

Myranda smiled gently. "I feel the same way," she murmured, wrapping her hand around his wrist. "You weren't my first, but I want you to be my last."

He smiled. "Good. I'm glad," he said, pulling her forward to kiss her softly.

 

_[Firstfall 21 – Early Evening]_

Myranda's attempt to "assassinate" Zevran through stealth had not gone as well as she had hoped, and now they were in a full-scale battle. He wasn't going easy on her, which she appreciated, though they were being careful not to actually kill each other. He had "killed" her once toward the beginning of the fight after she had made a stupid mistake, but since then, all the kills had been hers. At one point she managed to block both of his daggers with her sword before pressing the point of her dagger against his neck. "Dead again," she said with a smirk.

He blinked as she moved slowly away, laughing darkly and low in her throat: a sexy laugh if he'd ever heard one. The mere sound of it set every one of his nerves on end.

"Come now, Zevran," she said, rolling the 'r' as he would. "You're not taking me seriously."

He smirked and bowed slightly to her. "As I told you when we met, Myranda, you are quite skilled. But that you were in this situation in the first place is a failure in your training."

Myranda pursed her lips in frustration. "Damn it, I have to work harder on my stealth," she said, placing her hand over her middle as her stomach growled loudly.

Zevran laughed at this. "Well it is no wonder I heard you, with your stomach sounding like that!" He waved her back toward the main camp, finding his eyes lowering to her hips as he followed her, the sound of her deep, throaty laugh echoing in his mind.

There was a high level of camaraderie around the campfire that night, and though the wind was still icy, everyone felt a little warmer because of it. Even the food tasted better for it. Zevran enjoyed teasing Wynne and, when he started to wonder if she wouldn't use her magic to turn him into something unpleasant, turned his attentions to Leliana. Alistair and Myranda watched these antics from the other side of the fire, wrapped up in a blanket together with Baby and laughing softly.

The group sat up talking well into the night before starting to drift away to their respective beds. Zevran pulled his cloak tighter around himself as the two Grey Wardens finally stood as well. They walked back toward their tent and he watched as they shared a soft kiss in the shadows before Alistair ducked inside with Baby and Myranda swayed back toward the fire, a most interesting smile on her lips.

Myranda sat back by the fire, snuggling into her fur-lined cloak as she prepared for the long watch ahead of her. She had told Alistair to get some sleep while he could, as she expected she would need him to help warm her later. She sighed a little as she stared into the fire, her mind wandering to that moment when she slipped into the bedroll with him. Her appetite had become insatiable of late... not that he was complaining. And, come to think of it, she didn't truly mind, either. Though keeping her mind out of their bed was becoming more difficult.

She suddenly felt a different kind of heat than what the fire put off: the heat of an intense, calculating stare. She glanced over at Zevran, sure she was imagining the idea that he was staring at her. She wasn't. Though most of his face was in shadow, there was no mistaking the intensity in his eyes as he looked at her. He was watching her like an eagle watched its next meal. He was plotting... something. "Do you stare at everyone like that?" she asked, slightly unnerved.

A mysterious grin crossed the elf's lips. "Not everyone," he said in a dark, secretive voice. His voice lightened then, though the intriguing tone remained. "But a beautiful woman like yourself?" He shrugged. "Why not? I am sure you draw many stares, from men and even other women." He paused and she could just see the curious lift of one thin eyebrow. "Does this bother you?"

She thought about it for a moment. "I suppose not," she said finally.

"Then I shall keep that in mind," he said before the enigmatic smile returned to his lips. "And perhaps even redouble my efforts," he added, again in the soft, mysterious tone.

Myranda stared at him a moment, lifting one eyebrow curiously.

"There was a young elven dancer in Antiva City once, and I believe I actually managed to stare off all seven of her skirts." He grinned at her. "It's a trick worth retrying."

She laughed. "Now, don't get carried away."

"If you would prefer I desisted, you need only to say so," he told her. "It would be difficult, traveling as we do in close proximity, but I am nothing if not a gentleman."

"That's refreshing to hear," she said. There was a long pause that stretched between them before she spoke again. "Have you never loved anyone?"

"I have loved many, my dear Warden."

"I mean truly loved them? Not just sex."

"Certainly not," he said with a dismissive wave.

She sighed a little. "I suppose you couldn't afford to have strong attachments to anyone as an assassin."

"The Crows discourage such things. Such things are distracting, and a distracted assassin often ends up killed." He looked at her. "Your situation was similar before you joined the Wardens, from what I understand."

"I suppose so. I was always a personification of 'look, but don't touch.' Being the daughter of a teyrn, my options were somewhat limited."

"There is difficulty there, to be certain." The interesting spark returned to his eyes. "Then again, forbidden fruit is often sweeter."

Myranda frowned a little. "I'm not so sure about that," she said. "Do try to control your eyes, though, if you please."

"As you wish."

They talked of other matters for several hours until he dismissed her to her bed. He started to watch her walk away, but, true to his word, managed to pull his eyes away from her swaying hips.

He could control his eyes. His mind, however, was another matter. Her deep throaty laugh had intrigued him to no end, and he found the sound replaying over and over in his mind. Along with the memory of the gleam in her green eyes, the sound stirred something in him.

It hadn't been flattery all the times he'd told her she was beautiful. As he'd told her before, he said it because it was true. And she was exquisite: long, shapely legs, perfectly wide hips that swayed in the most marvelous way when she walked, a wonderfully narrow waist to accompany her toned abdomen, round breasts that he wondered were as firm as they looked, a smooth column of snow white skin that formed her neck. Her lean, supple body curved in all the right ways in all the right places and he knew no man could fail to notice. And then there were her eyes. In a face as lovely as that of any goddess, her eyes possessed the ability to capture a man's soul, driving him mad with desire. And—as if this was not enough!—her perfectly-shaped mouth was a source of never-ending fascination: her expressive lips, when curled into a smirk, almost begged to be kissed... to be nibbled and caressed until they parted to open the way to a mouth that would quite possibly be sweeter than the finest Orlesian confections. He could think of only one other place on her body that would be sweeter still, another pair of lips to be coaxed open to reveal the sweetness beyond.

He sucked in a sharp breath as his body started reacting to his mental wanderings. Such thoughts about the Grey Warden woman were dangerous. He remembered all too vividly how she had threatened him— _there_ —after thinking he had taken advantage of her. And yet, there was a strange allure about this as well: a woman who would stop at nothing until she received the answers she sought or the information she required. But it was that laugh and the gleam in her eye that had finally sparked his interest. She was bedding Alistair— _che culo_!—but perhaps she could be convinced to join him one night. He sighed despite himself. Ah, to make love to such a woman would be like walking through the Black City before it had been tainted. What a _delight_ she would be! His fingers twitched as he remembered the feel of her soft skin beneath his hands, the warmth of her body as she had responded to his touch.

He sighed to himself. "Ah, Zevran," he said softly to himself. "You have gotten yourself into quite a predicament this time, no?"


	26. Curiouser and Curiouser

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party arrives at Haven and at last finds Brother Genitivi.

**Chapter 26: Curiouser and Curiouser**  
_"Solitude vivifies; isolation kills." ~Joseph Roux_

  
  
By the third day of Haring, the group was climbing into the mountains in search of the tiny village referenced in the brother's diary.  Myranda had grumbled to herself about her own idiocy—what had she been thinking, she asked Alistair again and again, heading into the mountains in the middle of winter?  He promised the first time she asked to keep her warm, which earned him a knowing grin that caused him to blush to his roots.  After that, he said nothing except to assure her that she wasn't stupid... that the timing was just against them.  
  
This morning was the first that hadn't dawned accompanied by a blizzard, and, if the brother's map was to be believed, it looked like they would reach the village before midday.  
  
"Interesting strategy," Sten said at one point.  "Tell me: Do you intend to keep going north until it becomes south, and attack the archdemon from the rear?"  
  
Myranda smirked.  "It'll never see _this_ coming."  
  
"Truly," the qunari replied, not sounding amused by her sarcasm.  "It would surprise _me_ if my enemy counted-attacked by running away and climbing a mountain."  
  
The grin faded from the Grey Warden's lips.  "We're not 'running away' from anything," she said.  "We need the Ashes to heal Arl Eamon."  
  
"Lovely," Morrigan said.  "So we can _freeze_ to _death_ while searching for the bones of a madwoman."  
  
"How will this help him?" Sten asked, sounding exasperated.  
  
"The Ashes will help heal him."  She looked at him over her shoulder.  "You know this."  
  
"I have no doubt of your _faith_."  He sneered the word like an obscenity.  "I am beginning to doubt your _sanity_ , however."  
  
The blonde woman stopped and sighed in exasperation, turning on the qunari.  "What do you want, exactly?" she demanded.  
  
"Reason," Sten growled.  "The _archdemon_ is our goal.  And we are heading away from it.  To find the charred remnants of a dead woman."  
  
"I was not aware that you were a Grey Warden," Myranda said acidly, "able to sense the precise location of the archdemon."  
  
"I will not simply follow in your shadow as you run from battle."  
  
"For the last time," she said, a layer of steel entering her voice, "we are _not_ running away.  Furthermore, I don't recall asking your opinion on our plans.  And, besides, there's nothing you can do about it.  I'm in charge."  
  
Baby barked as if in agreement and approval.  
  
"Not anymore," Sten said.  "I'm taking command."  
  
Myranda narrowed her eyes.  "Just try it."  
  
"Defend yourself, Warden," the qunari said, drawing his sword.  "We will settle this."  
  
"Fine," she said, throwing off her cloak.  
  
"Myranda..."  
  
"No," she said, holding her hand out to Alistair and pointing a warning finger at him.  "No.   _I_ will finish this."  She drew her weapons.  "I stole this murderer from his death... perhaps it's time I reunited them."  
  
They circled around each other, both looking for an opening.  
  
"What's the matter?" Myranda asked mockingly.  "Fear is your weakness."  
  
" _Basra Vashedan_!"  Sten rushed the human woman, slashing at her to find she had suddenly vanished before a swift kick to the backs of his knees alerted him to her presence behind him.  He spun around with a vicious two-handed sweep, but again she seemed to vanish.  The kick this time was to a much more sensitive part of the body.  Behind the combatants, the rest of the party winced.  
  
Myranda pushed herself between the qunari's legs to get behind him, slashing at his shins to further hamper his movement.  She sensed the incoming attack before it began, rolling away and getting quickly to her feet as he slashed his sword into the ground where she had been seconds before.  She backed up a little, waiting for an opening: wielding a two-handed weapon made him more powerful, but she was by far the faster of the two.  
  
" _Katara_ , _bas_!" Sten cried, misreading her retreat.  Putting extra weight and effort behind a single strike, he rushed toward her to deliver one last mighty blow, which would skewer her onto his sword and end this nonsensical retreat away from their goal.  She leapt up at the last minute, however, avoiding the attack.  He blinked as he found the blonde human woman suddenly crouched on the flat of the huge broadsword, her blades crossed at his neck.  
  
"Now," she said, softly, for his ears alone, "you have two options.  You can try to drop me off of this sword, or you can question my authority for the last time.  My first instinct in both cases is to spread my arms out, which will also sever your head from your body.  Your third option is to shut up and remember that you are in my debt—that I have spared your life twice and that it will not happen a third time."  She leaned closer, the blades biting into his neck.  "Now which shall it be?"  
  
He stared at her for a moment before nodding slightly, accepting defeat.  "As you wish," he muttered.  He watched as her vivid green eyes bored into him a while longer.  "I was wrong," he said, a little louder.  "You are strong enough."  
  
Myranda glared at him as she eased off the blade of his sword, uncrossing her blades as she backed slowly away until they were out of each other's striking range.  "Then get back in line," she ordered with a snarl.  She turned on the rest of the group.  "Does anyone _else_ wish to question me?" she demanded, pointing her sword at each of them.  After receiving the appropriate, negative answer from each, she sheathed her blades, taking her cloak from Alistair and tying it back around her neck as she continued up the mountain path.  
  
"Just so you know," the other Grey Warden said softly after many quiet minutes, "Sten trying to take over the group was not my idea."  
  
Myranda looked over at him before realizing what he was referring to.  "Good... because that's a terrible mutiny plan if the mutineers don't back you for leadership."  
  
He smiled weakly.  Though she hadn't shown it on her face, there was a grin in her voice.  
  
They continued up the mountain path until they suddenly spotted a high wall through the trees.  The two Grey Wardens looked at each other before Myranda hurried up the path to the gate, where she was stopped by an unfriendly-looking guard.  
  
"What are you doing in Haven?" he asked suspiciously.  "There is nothing for you here."  
  
"I have business here," Myranda said.  
  
"No, you do not," the guard said flatly.  "I would have been informed if someone was expecting a visitor."  
  
Myranda and Alistair exchanged a look.  "Is there a Brother Genitivi here?" she asked.  
  
"Who?"  The guard sounded less curious and more suspicious than Myranda thought possible.  "Perhaps Revered Father Eirik will know of whom you speak.  Unfortunately, he's ministering to the villagers at the moment, and cannot be disturbed."  A ghost of a sneer crossed his lips.  "I suggest you seek your brother elsewhere."  
  
"A revered _father_ , huh?" Alistair said.  "That's new.  I wonder what this means."  
  
"I have never heard of this," Leliana agreed.  
  
"It has always been thus in Haven," the guard informed them.  "We do not question tradition."  
  
"Tradition that includes cutting yourselves off from the rest of Ferelden?" Myranda asked.  
  
"We keep to ourselves," he informed her woodenly.  "We see no need to announce our presence to the world.  It's more peaceful that way."  
  
"And who is in charge here?"  
  
"Father Eirik is our spiritual leader and guide.  He is in the chantry, giving a sermon.  You should not disturb him."  He added this last as a warning.  
  
"Have you heard of the Urn of Sacred Ashes?"  
  
The guard sniffed contemptuously.  "The Urn is nothing but a legend."  
  
Myranda sighed—she would get no information out of the guard.  "I would like to look around for a while, if you don't mind."  
  
The guard narrowed his eyes.  "We do not appreciate lowlanders 'looking about' our home as though it were some sort of zoo."  
  
"That is certainly not what I meant," she said soothingly.  "I simply need some fresh supplies before we get underway."  
  
The guard looked at her suspiciously for a moment.  "You may trade for supplies at the shop if you wish," he said.  "Then I suggest you and your companions leave."  He walked away then, back to his post.  
  
Alistair shuddered.  "Did it just get a lot colder?  Or is it just me?"  
  
Baby barked.  
  
"They are hiding something," Morrigan said.  "'Tis obvious, is it not?"  
  
Zevran sighed heavily to himself.  "Ah, quiet, insular communities.  There's always something _nasty_ going on behind closed doors.  I hope it involves chains..." he mused to himself before he grinned maniacally.  "I hope they ask me to join in!"  
  
Myranda swatted him on the arm.  "Not _now_ , Zevran," she said before leading the way into the village.  
  
Haven was a strange sort of place: the houses were little more than primitive huts and chickens roamed freely through the streets.  In fact, if not for the guard and the sense of numerous watchful eyes, it would almost seem the village was populated by chickens.  
  
"Well, this is nice," Wynne commented, obviously trying to dispel some of the nervous tension.  "Mountain air, quiet village.  But where is everyone?"  
  
"I don't know," Leliana said.  "But I don't like this.  Something's not right—I can feel it."  
  
"Do you think they'd miss a chicken?" Alistair asked, staring at one of the birds and nearly oblivious to the sense of unease curling around the group.  "Or two?"  
  
"Or eight?" Myranda chimed in.  "How long has it been since we had chicken?  And I'm _starving_."  
  
"I'm not sure we should steal any chickens with that guard watching us," Zevran said with a grin.  
  
The blonde woman sighed in disappointment.  "You're probably right.  Still... chicken..."  She managed to tear her eyes from the birds and looked around before she noticed a large, wooden archway with spikes on the top, hung with the standard of the Chantry, that marked another path up the hill.  Her green eyes narrowed in suspicious confusion and she started up the path, waving for her companions to follow.  Another of the spiked arches marked the top of the path, which led to a building set aside from and almost looking down on the village below.  
  
The building was incredibly strange—it looked like it had large, wooden thorny vines growing out of it, while on the tallest spire was a metal half-circle with similar spikes to the archways: a crude representation of a sun.  Despite the warm colors of the stained glass in the windows, the building—which had to be Haven's chantry—looked dark and forbidding... almost sinister.  
  
"That has to be the strangest looking chantry I've ever seen," Myranda said.  
  
"You hear that?" Alistair asked softly.  "There's people in there... the whole town, maybe."  
  
"It would explain the emptiness of the village below," Wynne said.  
  
"Well, then, shall we?" Myranda asked as she headed toward the doors, pushing one open and stepping inside.  
  
The large nave was packed with people, though there couldn't have been over a hundred souls inside.  All were listening rapturously to the tall, thin man standing before the altar, preaching to them.  Though he wore a plain, homespun robe instead of the pink linen robe of the clergy, there was no mistaking this was the Revered Father Eirik the guard had mentioned.  His long silver hair was tied back in a queue and his icy blue eyes glanced at them when they entered, though he did not pause in his sermon.  
  
"We are blessed beyond measure," he was saying.  "We are chosen by the Holy and Beloved to be Her guardians.  This sacred duty is given to us alone; rejoice, my brethren, and prepare your hearts to receive Her."  
  
Myranda looked at Leliana and then at Alistair before she muttered "Come on" and started through the crowd.  
  
"Lift up your voices and despair not, for She will raise Her faithful servants to glory when Her..."  Eirik's voice trailed off as the villagers scurried nervously away as Myranda made her way toward the front.  "I understand that you are new here," he said, "but common courtesy dictates that one shouldn't interrupt."  He waved his hand dismissively when the blonde opened her mouth to speak.  "No matter.  We were just about done here anyway."  
  
"But your Reverence," a young woman with chestnut colored hair said, skittering forward while giving Myranda and her party a wide berth, "we have not completed the Sacraments of the Holy Mother or... or... or sung the Invocation—"  
  
"Be calm, Nuada," Eirik said soothingly.  "We have an honored guest.  Surely the Sacraments can wait."  
  
Zevran sighed.  "How nightmarish to live in such a rural village," he said, "the only entertainment being priests who go on about the chant of this and that.  Just _once_ I'd like to walk into one of these places and discover a lively dance, or a drinking festival.  Or an orgy!  But alas, no," he finished with another sigh.  
  
"Shut up, Zevran," Myranda muttered.  
  
Eirik eyed them before turning back to the congregation.  "That is all for today, my children," he said.  "I shall see you tomorrow.  For now..." he turned his cold blue eyes back to Myranda, "I should see to our visitors."  
  
Vivid green eyes watched the majority of the people file past them, though some of the men loitered near the walls.  
  
"Behind us as well," Leliana murmured.  
  
Myranda nodded minutely.  "There was no need to end the sermon," she said to Eirik smoothly.  
  
"It is better this way," he replied.  "Many of the villagers are uncomfortable in the presence of strangers."  He smiled, though the look was neither friendly nor inviting.  "Now what can I do for you?"  
  
"We've come looking for the Urn of Sacred Ashes."  
  
One silver eyebrow arched.  "You've come all this way chasing a myth?" he asked with a disdainful chuckle.  "You will not find it in Haven.  We are but simple people who enjoy the pleasures of hearth and home."  
  
"Brother Genitivi seemed to think otherwise.  Was he here?"  
  
Eirik pursed his lips in a frown before turning away from them.  "We find outsiders... disruptive," he said, his voice soft, but with an underlying danger.  "They bring others, and before long, Haven is changed."  He turned back to the group with dark and sinister purpose.  "We will go to any lengths to prevent that."  
  
Baby started to growl deeply in his throat and Myranda noted the movement of the men around them.  
  
The revered father smiled menacingly.  "You understand a man's need to protect his family, don't you?"  He lifted his eyes to look behind the group.  "Brothers, you know what must be done."  
  
Swords rang from sheathes and the air bristled with magic as the villagers moved to attack.  Myranda's knife was in her hand one moment and sailing through the air the next, burying into Eirik's chest seconds before Baby leapt onto him, tearing at his throat with powerful jaws.  The villagers went down quickly, while the party received no damage at all.  
  
"Loot the bodies," Myranda ordered, making her way toward the late Father Eirik.  "See what you can find on them."  
  
She knelt by the priest and began going through his pockets, finding a bottle of lyrium, but nothing else.  She sighed in frustration, pulling her knife from his chest and ripping his tunic in the process.  It was then that a metallic gleam caught her eye; she ripped the shirt open to reveal a very large bronze disk, bearing the symbol of Andraste, hanging around the dead man's neck.  "Alistair," she called.  "Come look at this."  She slipped the chain up over Eirik's head before handing the medallion to the other Grey Warden.  "Ever seen anything like it?"  
  
"No," he said, taking it and turning it over in his hands.  "Never.  What do you suppose it is?"  
  
"I don't know.  I just wondered if you'd ever seen anyone in the Chantry wearing one."  
  
"Not while I was there..."  
  
"May I see?" Leliana asked, walking over.  A curious look crossed her face as she took the medallion from Alistair.  "How strange!" she said.  
  
"Recognize it?" Myranda asked.  
  
"No... I have never seen a medallion like this."  
  
"Damn," the blonde swore, taking the disk back.  "And now we have to find Genitivi."  
  
"Do you think he could be here in the chantry?" Alistair asked.  
  
"I'm almost sure of it," she replied, remembering the look on Eirik's face when she had mentioned the brother.  "We need to search the whole building—even check the floor for trap doors."  
  
The group spread out, the majority searching the nave while Myranda wandered through an archway into the north transept.  Coming across an inscribed chest, she called Zevran in before setting him to picking the lock, which he managed quickly.  There was nothing of value inside but a small ivory ring and a small bar of pure silver, which the elf admired and accepted when Myranda offered it to him.  
  
They exited the small room before noticing the opposite archway, which would normally lead to the south transept, had been bricked up.  Alistair was standing in front of it with Baby, the two of them staring pensively at it.  
  
"Found something?" Myranda asked, walking over and sliding her hand into the crook of Alistair's elbow.  
  
"Does the brickwork look different to you?"  
  
She looked back at the archway, studying the bricks more closely.  And, now that he mentioned it, the bricks _did_ look newer... not considerably so, but just enough to be noticeable.  She looked over at him and lifted an eyebrow.  
  
"Nuh-uh!" he said, pulling away and holding up his hands in a show of surrender as he read the question in her emerald eyes.  "I'm not falling through another archway."  
  
"Look for a trigger," she said around a giggle.  "It may work like the one in the Brecilian Ruins."  She ducked behind a tapestry with two sitting mabari, running her hands over the stones of the wall as high as she could reach before sliding them slowly down, inspecting each crack in the mortar, each chip in the stones.  
  
Alistair pulled back the edge of the tapestry a few minutes later.  "Well?"  
  
"I'm still looking."  She looked over at him and was about to ask him if he'd had any luck when he suddenly leaned over and kissed her.  He pulled away a few moments later and she could only stare at him, suddenly feeling _very_ warm.  "Was there a reason for that pleasant surprise?" she murmured, a smirk pulling at one corner of her mouth.  
  
He grinned back at her.  "Because I can."  
  
She giggled a little.  "Oh, if we were alone, I'd..." she let her voice trail off and winked flirtatiously at him before breathing a soft sigh.  "But we're not alone, and I need to look for... ah ha!"  This soft, triumphant cry was punctuated by mabari barking and the scraping of stone against stone when she depressed one of the stones.  She gave Alistair a quick kiss before ducking out from under the tapestry, stepping through the newly-opened archway into the transept after Baby.  
  
Inside, a bald man was laying on the floor, looking dejected.  He lifted startling sapphire blue eyes to them as they entered, and the lines on his face told of gentle torture through lack of adequate food, water and sleep, while his body lie broken from more brutal methods, especially obvious by the dried blood that caked one leg of his trousers.  The chill in the room was noticeable and obviously originated from the window as the glass in one corner was missing.  
  
"Who are you?" the man, obviously a prisoner, asked.  "They... they've sent you to finish it?"  
  
"Brother Genitivi?" Myranda asked, stepping cautiously forward.  
  
"Did you find him?" Wynne asked, coming into the room with Leliana on her heels.  
  
"Holy Maker!" the bard cried.  "Who would kidnap and torture a brother?"  
  
"You're... you're not one of them."  The relief in his eyes was hidden when they closed.  "Thank the Maker," he breathed.  
  
"Are you all right?" the blonde woman asked.  
  
"What do you think?" Genitivi asked, though without venom.  "Weeks of scant food and water, the torture... _oh_ , I've never felt better!"  His voice was thick with sarcasm.  
  
Myranda smirked.  " _Touché_ ," she said.  "Allow me to rephrase: Can I do anything for you?"  
  
The brother sighed as she knelt and helped him to sit up.  "The leg's not doing so well," he said, "and... I can't feel my foot."  
  
Green eyes turned to the elder mage.  "Wynne, can you help?"  
  
"I can set the leg and ease some of the pain," Wynne said, "but he'll need a lot of rest in order to heal."  
  
Genitivi groaned.  "I don't have time to rest now," he said.  "I'm so _close_.  The Urn is just up that mountain."  
  
Myranda's heart stirred with hope.  "How do you know?"  
  
"My research led me to Haven... and I have heard the villagers talking.  I know the Urn is here."  
  
"We need to find the Ashes," Alistair said.  "Arl Eamon gets sicker by the day."  
  
Genitivi looked up at him.  "The arl is sick?" he asked, genuinely confused.  "Will he live?"  
  
"He was poisoned under Loghain's orders," Myranda explained.  
  
The brother sighed heavily.  "Politics.  Never did anyone any good."  
  
"Tell me about it."  She returned to the point then.  "So the Urn is close by?"  
  
"Haven lies in the shadow of the mountain that holds the Urn.  There is an old temple there, built to protect it.  The door is always locked, but I know what the key is."  He looked at her.  "Eirik wears a medallion that opens the temple door... I've seen what he does with it."  
  
Myranda held out the bronze medallion she had taken off of the priest.  "This medallion?"  
  
Genitivi's eyes gleamed.  "Yes," he breathed, reaching for it, "that is our key."  
  
Myranda flipped the medallion back up into her hand.  She had not come this far to let this brother snatch the Urn out from under her nose... not when she was this close to saving Eamon.  
  
Sapphire eyes blinked sharply when the medallion suddenly disappeared from their view and looked back up at Myranda.  "Take me to the mountainside," Genitivi said, "and I will show you."  
  
"In a while," Myranda said, standing.  "I want to make sure it's safe to stay here."  
  
"That's wise," Genitivi agreed.  "There are many villagers, and they may take offense to the death of their priest."  
  
She nodded and looked at Wynne and Leliana.  "Stay with him… see that he gets the attention he needs.  We'll be back soon."  She walked back out into the central nave, Alistair close behind her.  "Zevran," she said, "come with me a moment."  
  
"At your service, Myranda."  
  
She opened the chantry door and stepped out into the sweet, fragrant dusk.  It was already starting to snow, and the air held a promise of more... possibly a blizzard by the looks of the gusty wind that whipped violently through the treetops.  Myranda was glad they would have shelter for the night.  
  
" _Braska_ ," Zevran swore, clutching his cloak tightly around himself.  "Curse your Fereldan weather."  
  
"We need to secure the village," Myranda said.  "I don't want them to sneak up on us in the middle of the night, though the weather may help deter it."  
  
Zevran looked at her and grinned.  "You are thinking of a little assassination venture, yes?"  
  
"With as little killing as we can manage... I don't want the whole village on our heads."  
  
"I believe you fail to grasp the point of assassinations."  
  
She smirked at this.  "I was just thinking we could lay a few traps for anyone thinking to pay a midnight visit to the chantry."  
  
"Now that is more like it!"  
  
She turned and looked at Alistair then.  "I want you to..."  
  
"Let me come with you," he said before she could finish the order.  
  
"No, darling.  Stay here and guard the chantry."  
  
"Myranda..."  
  
"We'll be fine, Alistair.  Trust me."  She lifted a hand to his face.  "I'm not going far, my love... just to the bottom of the hill.  I'll be back soon."  She kissed him softly, grinning when she pulled away.  "I'll bring you a chicken."

 

She in fact came back with five of the birds.  She and Zevran had had no trouble with the villagers, and though they expected no problems that night thanks to the incoming blizzard, they had set a line of traps at the bottom of the hill, just in case.  The nave had been cleared by the time they returned, the bodies of Eirik and the villagers dragged, Myranda assumed, into the south transept behind the closed secret door.  A fire had been built near the altar steps, the few chairs that had been in the room used for fuel.  
  
It was over this cheery fire that the chickens were roasted—while Myranda boiled some of the organs in melted snow to give to Baby.  Though the wind howled and the snow blew in a fury outside, inside was warm and light and everyone seemed to feel better to have proper shelter from the weather.  
  
Genitivi, his leg properly set and looking much better for the proper food, regaled them with tales—the legends of Andraste, stories about his adventures and misadventures, and facts about his life.  
  
One story that mentioned his young apprentice made Myranda frown with remembrance.  "Brother, I think you should know about Weylon..." she began slowly.  
  
"Weylon?" Genitivi asked, purely curious.  "What about him?"  
  
Myranda looked at Alistair, wondering at the best way to break the news before she sighed softly.  "He had been killed," she said.  "An imposter was put in his place at your home in Denerim."  
  
"We found his body in your study," Alistair explained.  
  
Genitivi's shock melted into a look of great pain as he sighed heavily.  "Oh, poor Weylon..." he murmured.  "I should never have dragged you into this.  Maker take you into His hands, my boy."  
  
"I'm sorry, Brother," Myranda said sincerely.  
  
"He... believed in me," the brother said.  "Even when I lost faith in myself.  I will honor his memory."  
  
Leliana pulled out her lute then and sang and played a few songs for the group, including a Fereldan folk dance that Myranda hadn't realized she knew.  She took this opportunity to continue Alistair's dancing lessons until they nearly collapsed, laughing with delight.  
  
The hour being late, most of the group bedded down for the night after this, Wynne changing the dressing on Genitivi's leg before she retired to a corner of the room.  The two Grey Wardens sat up with the brother a while as he waited for the pain in his leg to subside again, sitting together back against the wall.  
  
It was Alistair who broke the silence, speaking a fear that had been weighing on Myranda's mind as well.  "The Ashes," he said hesitantly.  "They will cure Arl Eamon, won't they?"  
  
"I certainly hope so," the brother replied.  "The legends speak of their miraculous powers."  He looked into the fire.  "There are many stories of pilgrims being healed, the blind seeing, and the lame dancing in joy."  He looked back up at them.  "Perhaps it is Andraste that does this.  Perhaps it is belief itself: by believing the Ashes are magical, you make them so."  
  
"That makes sense, I suppose," Alistair conceded.  
  
"If it doesn't work, we'll find another way," Myranda assured him.  
  
"Anyway, that can be discussed once we actually have the Ashes and the arl is better," Genitivi said.  
  
She nodded.  "You're right," she said, taking Alistair's hand and giving it a reassuring squeeze when he interlaced their fingers.  It was several more moments before she spoke again, deciding to change the subject.  "Haven," she began, smirking as she looked over at the brother again.  "It's a little odd, isn't it?"  
  
Genitivi chuckled at this, a soft, warm sound from deep in his throat.  "Well, it wasn't _exactly_ what I expected it to be."  
  
"How did you find out about Haven?"  
  
The brother smiled.  "Pure luck," he said.  "I wasn't even looking for any village.   _I_ had always assumed that the temple that housed the Urn would be lost to time and abandoned.  It took years of study to narrow down its location to this range of mountains.  Then, completely by accident, I came across an unrelated document that mentioned a village called Haven."  
  
"Unrelated?" Myranda repeated.  "If it was unrelated, why did you set off to find it?"  
  
"It's a long story," he said, shifting a little to ease his leg.  "I had asked Weylon to fetch several books from the Denerim chantry.  Among them was one I _didn't_ ask for: a hundred year-old log of the Denerim chantry's business transactions."  
  
"And why would that mention Haven?"  
  
"In it was an account of a dwarven trader who had failed to transport goods from Orzammar, that had already been paid for.  There was a blizzard, and his caravan was turned off the path.  They eventually came across a small human village that was not on any map.  The trader tried to gain entry to take shelter from the storm.  Unfortunately, they were turned away and had to take refuge in a cave."  
  
"The villagers finding outsiders 'disruptive,' to use Eirik's word."  
  
"When he woke up that next morning, everyone, and every _thing_ , was gone.  He managed to find the road again and made it to Denerim, but he never saw the caravan again."  
  
"Did the villagers do something to his caravan?" Myranda asked.  
  
"It was never stated," Genitivi replied.  "It became clear from the dwarf's story, however, that this village would be near the temple.  And it occurred to me that they might know something about the Urn, and I decided to find the village myself.  And," he continued with a soft sigh, "that's how this trouble started."  He gestured to his leg.  
  
"Why does Haven have revered fathers?  Not to sound too much like a qunari, but only women become priests."  
  
The brother shrugged.  "I do not know.  It is possible that the Disciples of Andraste predate the Chantry, and so have no knowledge of the Chantry's rules."  
  
"Disciples of Andraste?"  
  
"It's what the villagers call themselves," Genitivi clarified.  "They are very, _very_ devoted.  One could say fanatically so."  
  
"Yes.  I noticed."  
  
"They must be here to protect the Urn," he went on, "but they speak of Andraste as though... as though She were still alive."  
  
Myranda blinked in shock.  "Is that possible?"  
  
Genitivi smiled gently at her.  "I'm old enough to know that anything is possible, child."  
  
She stared at the fire for several long, quiet moments, musing over this.  "Why were you captured, then?  What were the villagers doing with you?"  
  
"They seemed intent on finding out personal information about me," he said, looking slightly puzzled.  "Where I grew up, things like that...."  
  
"That's curious."  
  
"They must have been planning to do with me what they did to Weylon: plant an imposter."  
  
"And thus keep everyone who was interested in the Urn away from Haven... if they didn't send them to meet the Maker personally."  She looked over at the brother.  "Do you know about the knights who were sent to look for you?"  
  
Genitivi sighed heavily, as if the weight of all the deaths had been suddenly placed on his shoulders.  "Yes, of course," he said.  "How could I forget?"  He turned his sapphire eyes to her emeralds.  "Eirik said they were ambushed, some killed, a few brought back to Haven to be questioned."  He shook his head.  "He was so self righteous about it... so smug.  He seemed pleased that he had tortured and murdered these men."  
  
"Well, Eirik's not going to be bothering anyone else for a while."  
  
He nodded once.  "Eirik and his fellows were a blemish in the Maker's sight."  Then, he muttered, "If the Maker would even deign to look upon this world, that is..."  He shook his head.  "But there will be plenty of time to talk during the journey to the temple.  You should get some sleep... it seems your lover has already dropped off."  
  
Myranda looked over to see Alistair's head slumped forward, his chest rising and falling with his deep, even breathing.  She smiled affectionately at him before turning back to the brother.  "How did you know?"  
  
"I may be old, but I'm not blind," Genitivi said with a smile.  "Your love for each other is obvious... as is the fact that you are intimately familiar with one another."  
  
"Does it offend you that we're not married?"  
  
"The Chant of Light tells us that love comes from the Maker," the brother told her, "and all who love know Him.  Love is the greatest of His creations, in my opinion, and deserves to be celebrated.  As to your question, the Chantry's wedding ceremony is just that: ceremony.  Your marriage is one of the heart and binds you more tightly than a set of vows ever could."  
  
The blonde woman smiled.  "How very forward thinking of you, Brother."  
  
Another soft, warm chuckle echoed through the vast room.  
  
"I'd ask if you needed anything, but I don't think I could get up without disturbing Alistair."  
  
"No, no.  I'll be fine.  The pain's starting to go away to the point I may be able to sleep."  
  
"Then good night, Brother," she said.  
  
"Good night, Warden."  
  
Myranda moved to snuggle against Alistair, who shifted in his sleep, his arm tightening around her waist as he nuzzled his cheek against the top of her head.  Feeling warm and safe, she dropped quickly into a deep, dreamless sleep.

 

 

In the morning, it was decided that Sten, Morrigan, and Zevran would stay behind to keep an eye on Haven while the others made the trek up to the mountain temple.  Myranda pulled the elf aside shortly thereafter, waving at Alistair that the private conversation would not last long.  
  
"I'm leaving you in charge," she said without preamble.  "Though I don't worry about Morrigan."  
  
Zevran smiled knowingly.  "It is our qunari friend who has raised your hackles, yes?"  
  
"I am neither pleased nor impressed by what happened yesterday."  She gave him a hard look.  "I will not tolerate any more insurrection.  If he tries to leave, kill him."  
  
The assassin placed his hand over his heart and bowed deeply.  "On my word, it shall be as you command."  
  
"Thank you."  This unpleasantness over with, she allowed a smile to cross her lips.  "Don't get any fancy ideas about being in charge, however."  
  
"Your orders are clear and simple: keep an eye on the ravishing Morrigan and our qunari friend."  
  
"And don't die... which means keep your hands away from Morrigan."  
  
Zevran sighed in mock defeat.  "As you say.  Ah, the whims of a sex goddess can be so cruel."  
  
"And deadly."  
  
He chuckled darkly at this.  "Quite," he said, following her as she made her way back toward the group.  
  
She grinned at him before taking Alistair's hand and smiling at him.  "Ready?"  
  
"I think so."  
  
"Can you make the journey, Brother?" she asked Genitivi, turning toward him.  
  
He nodded.  "It is not that far and... will you let me lean on you?"  
  
"Of course... if you're sure you're able."  
  
"For the Urn, any pain is worth enduring," he said with a smile.  "And I'll try not to slow us down."  
  
Myranda turned to Sten, Morrigan, and Zevran.  "I don't imagine we'll be gone much longer than two weeks.  Keep an eye on the village in the meantime."  She gave Sten a hard, cold look.  "I expect you to be here when we return.  And Morrigan?" she added, turning to the witch with a smirk.  "Try not to burn the village down."  
  
"I shall make no promises."


	27. Imitatio Dei

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Myranda and party enter the Temple of Doom, blow off some cultists and take down a dragon.

**Chapter 27: _Imitatio Dei_**

_"When theology erodes and organization crumbles, when the institutional framework of religion begins to break up, the search for a direct experience which people can feel to be religious facilitates the rise of cults." ~Daniel Bell_

 

Five days later, the six travelers—five humans and one mabari—were walking through a cavernous entryway toward a large, intricately-carved stone door. Genitivi led the way, leaning heavily on a large tree branch as he limped along.

"Here we are," he said, looking up at the massive door before turning to Myranda. "Give me the medallion, and let's see if I remember."

Myranda took the large bronze disk from around her neck and dropped it into his hand, watching as he turned the edge of the medallion this way and that.

"Yes... yes, you, see, it _can_ be manipulated, just like this..." his voice trailed off as he worked the disk until with an almost inaudible click three holes suddenly appeared in the disk. "And there! A key to open the way."

Myranda looked at him. "How did you know how to do that?" she asked.

"There are very few keys like this left in the world," Genitivi told her, "but I have seen some. When you find the right combination, it just... feels right." He shrugged. "It is hard to explain." He turned back to the door. "Now, let's see if we can open this. There should be a place to insert this..." He almost pounced when he found the correct place, fitting the medallion-key into the three prongs and carefully twisting it. To Myranda's shock, it spun quite easily, unlocking the door with a loud, deep metallic noise. Genitivi looked over at her and smiled a little before pushing the door open to reveal the temple beyond.

The room they entered was a sight beyond compare. Built in the old style of the Tevinters, the vaulted ceiling was so high it nearly disappeared. The magnificent hall could easily hold a thousand people, if not more. Across the large room, barely visible through the icy mist that hovered over the stone floor, Myranda could just make out the wide staircase and the huge door at the top.

"Maker's breath," Alistair breathed, open-mouthed with awe. "Look... look at it all!"

"I can't believe all this is still standing," Leliana said. "This temple must be thousands of years old."

"Oh, what I would give to have seen this hall in all its splendor," Genitivi added, "as it was _meant_ to be..." His voice trailed off as he looked around. "Still, sweep away the ice and the snow, and traces of beauty remain."

Myranda looked around nervously. There was something about this place, something in the very air, that set her on edge. "You need to stay alert now, Brother."

Genitivi's sapphire eyes blinked and turned to her. "I'm sorry... what?" he asked. "I was a little distracted. I apologize." His eyes focused on a point over her shoulder and lit up before the brother made his way slowly over to one of the many statues that was covered in inscriptions. "These carvings were created just after Andraste's death, and they may reveal things about Her life that we do not yet know..." He ran his hand reverently—almost lovingly over the markings. "I think I need more time to study these statues and carvings," he said after several moments.

"You want to stay here?" Leliana asked. "Is it safe?"

The brother turned back to them. "I could not keep up with you with my injuries," he said. "I should be safe; I don't think there are any villagers here."

"I wouldn't be too sure about that," Myranda said, unable to ease the pit in her stomach.

Genitivi smiled a little. "Go. I will be all right. Perhaps my destiny was only to lead you to the Urn."

"Is there anything else we need to know about the temple?"

"It was designed to protect the Urn from those who would steal it," he said, "or do harm to it—namely, the Tevinter Imperium. So it's most likely filled with dangers."

"What sort of dangers are we talking about here?" Alistair asked.

"I'm not sure," the brother admitted with a slight shrug. "The legends were never very specific on that point." He looked back at Myranda. "'Only the faithful shall lay eyes on the Sacred Ashes,'" he recited, "'death and misfortune await the unbeliever. The Maker's gaze has fallen on Andraste's final resting place. He weeps for His Beloved, and His wrath at Her betrayers endures.'"

Emerald eyes blinked in surprise. "The Maker?" she said. "The Maker is here?"

"That is what the legend says, and the Maker may indeed watch this place." He shrugged again. "Read between the lines, however, and you'll understand that it is merely a simple truth draped in hyperbole and metaphor. After all," he continued with a grin, "no one wants to hear: 'Willy toiled for many a year to perfect the curious mechanisms that would send a sharpened spike up the arse of the unwary intruder.'"

Myranda laughed at this. "So traps, then?"

Genitivi smirked. "I think my decision to stay here was the best one, don't you?

"All right," she conceded. "If you're sure. Just try not to get in trouble."

He nodded. "I'll be right here if you need me," he said, lowering himself carefully to sit on the floor in front of the statue. "Now I need something to write on..." he muttered.

"Take this," Myranda said, handing him his research diary.

His sapphire eyes lit up at the sight of it. "Ah, perfect," he said, taking it and flipping to a relatively blank page. "Thank you."

Leaving Genitivi to his sketches and mutterings, Myranda and the others set off across the huge room. "I want to check everywhere we can for villagers," she said. "Genitivi's a bit too relaxed, and that makes me nervous."

"You think Eirik would have locked people in?" Leliana asked.

"I don't know. Maybe not. Maybe there's another way in. Either way, I'd rather make sure than have a dead scholar on our hands."

They searched a few of the side halls off the main one, finding very little besides a few treasure chests that Myranda felt no qualms about looting. The door at the far end of the Hall from where they left the brother opened easily and led to another large reception hall—this one not as vast as the one they just left, but still marvelous. This room, however, had apparently been trapped against intruders, as halfway across a ghastly shriek pierced the air before six wraiths suddenly descended upon the group. The battle was difficult, but the wraiths eventually fell to a combination of spirit magic from Wynne and Alistair's templar abilities. Another short stairway led to another, smaller room that appeared to be some sort of shrine, with a large lighted brazier in front of the penitent Andraste.

After warming themselves by the brazier for many, many long minutes, they finally took in the surroundings to note there were two doors: one on either side of the shrine.

"Which way?" Leliana asked.

Myranda looked between the two doors. "Let's try left first. We'll come back to explore the other way if we have to."

At the end of a long hallway was a small room with four large treasure chests: three in the far corner and one on the wall to their right near the room's other door. Myranda knelt by this lone chest, smashing the lock open before opening the lid, not expecting the wraith that blasted out of it. She screamed and stumbled back with shock and terror before Wynne blasted it with a bolt of magic. When the thing vanished into nothingness, she stood, panting for breath and quivering slightly.

"Are you all right?" Alistair asked her softly.

She nodded. "Yes. I was just... startled." She looked over at the other three chests in the room. "I'm a little less inclined to open those, however."

They barred the other door, then retreated back to the shrine and its large brazier, deciding to make camp and rest up before moving to the upper level of the ruins. Myranda wondered about the other corridor, and asked Wynne to accompany her to check it, leaving the others to set up a makeshift camp. Alistair offered to accompany the two women, but Myranda declined, kissing him and promising with a small smile not to try to open any more chests.

Wynne knew immediately, however, that there was another reason for this excursion. "What's on your mind?" she asked as soon as they were out of earshot of the others.

"Is there something we can do to cure you?"

"Cure me?" the older woman repeated with a small laugh. "What? Am I sick now?"

"I guess death isn't an illness, is it?" Myranda said with a soft sigh. "I just... thought I'd ask, since we were here looking for the Sacred Ashes."

"Even you know that you cannot cure the dead... not even the Ashes are that powerful. And I'm not the only one dying. You are too. I'm just more efficient about it." She smiled gently as the Grey Warden sighed a little again. "Ah, child... your concern is heartwarming, but death comes to everyone, and it is not something to fear."

Green eyes lifted from the temple floor. "You're not afraid?"

"People fear, not death, but having life taken from them. Many waste the life given to them, occupying themselves with things that do not matter." She paused thoughtfully. "But love is not one of those things," she added after a few moments. "Which reminds me of the warning I gave about you and Alistair. I have watched you for a time and... perhaps I was wrong."

Green eyes blinked in slight surprise. "So you've changed your mind?"

"There seems to be something special between the two of you. He seems less guarded when in your company, allows himself to relax. And he seems genuinely happy... more so than he has since I mentioned to you the dangers of your relationship."

"We've come to an understanding since then," Myranda said vaguely, deciding not to tell the older woman just _what_ they understood about her warning. "And I am happy with him. Very much so."

"Yes," the older woman said with a sort of sad smile. "I think I was too harsh in my judgment before, and I am sorry."

"You were trying to look out for us," the Grey Warden replied understandingly.

"What you have may not last forever; death and duty may part you, but love's worthiness is not diminished because of that. Instead, you learn to cherish every precious moment that you spend together, knowing that it may be the last. I should have seen this before. And for those of us watching..." her voice trailed off and a wistful smile crossed her face. "Well, it brings warmth to these old bones to know that something so beautiful can be found in the midst of chaos and strife."

Myranda smiled, glad that the mage had changed her mind about her and Alistair. It hadn't truly mattered—she wouldn't break off her relationship with him for all the wealth in Thedas—but she had started to think of Wynne like a mother, and so to have her approval meant a great deal.

"When the end comes," Wynne continued, returning to her original point, "many say they did not have time enough to spend with loved ones, to fulfill dreams, to go on adventures they only talked about..." She shook her head. "But why should you fear death if you are happy with the life you have led, if you can look back on everything and say: 'Yes, I am content. It is enough.'"

"And are you content?"

"I think I've led a good life, a full life, and I, for one, am not afraid of death, whatever it may bring." She paused again. "They say that when you die, your spirit travels through the Fade and returns to the Maker. And after that..." her voice trailed off again and she looked over at the younger woman with a smirk, "we'll see, won't we?"

By this time they had reached a small room identical to the one they had encountered before. They barred the opposite door in this room as well before heading back, talking of less weighty things.

The group enjoyed the brazier's warmth, and especially the generous supply of fuel behind the statue. Their meal was meager, but filling, and the talk was amiable. They eventually drifted off to their respective bedrolls and sleep, Myranda curling up in the blanket with Alistair, holding him gently as she lay her head on his chest.

"How are you doing?" he asked her, softly so as not to disturb their sleeping companions.

"I'm all right. That wraith nearly scared the life out of me, but I'm fine."

"But you said you skipped this month."

"I have," she said. Since their misunderstanding, they had made a point of talking about everything, including her monthly cycle. She hadn't liked that she had skipped... she liked even less telling him about it—telling him that it was unusual for women to do so only worried him, but at least he was worried for the proper reason than thinking it was something far worse. "But it's been a stressful time. And remember, I told you that was why I skipped before."

"Yes... but... I don't know. You said it was unusual for that to happen. I'm just worried."

"Don't worry, love. I'm quite certain that I'm fine." She tilted her head back and kissed him softly and briefly. "I'll ask Wynne about it if I skip next month too." She nuzzled him gently. "Speaking of, I got an apology from her."

He blinked in confusion. "You did? What for?"

"For telling me that our love wasn't worth pursuing because we're Grey Wardens. She has since come to the conclusion that there is something special between us."

"Now _that_ I think is right," he said with a smile.

"I agree." She snuggled under the blanket, sighing contentedly as he pulled her close. A terrible thought suddenly occurred to her, something she had been trying not to think about. Now, at the base of a statue of the Blessed Herself, the thought came back and refused to be dismissed. "Andraste..." she said after a few moments. "Do you think we'll find Her?"

Alistair sighed a little. "I don't know. I hope so. I don't think Arl Eamon has a lot of time left."

She tightened her arms around him. "I always thought the Urn was a myth," she whispered. "I don't know if I believed— _really_ believed—in any of it. Certainly I believe in the Maker, but the depths of my faith are... shallow, at best. I don't think you could even drown in it." She heard his deep chuckle resonate in his chest and fought the delightful shudder the sound caused.

"There are days I feel like that, too," he murmured. "But I wouldn't worry. You believe... even if it's just a little. No one's asking you to be a Chantry sister."

"Least of all you."

"I think you'd chafe under the chastity vow."

"When I know I could have a handsome prince warming my bed? Certainly I would."

Alistair laughed softly again before kissing the top of her head. "Good night, Myranda."

"Good night." She snuggled against him and closed her eyes. "I love you."

"And I love you."

 

 

Hours later, when everyone was sufficiently rested, they continued up toward the upper level of the temple. The barricades they'd erected the previous night—they found it easier to continue thinking about the passage of time as day and night—were still in place, so they removed them to continue upward. Strangely, one wall of the room beyond had a large hole in it, made by nothing any of them could have imagined, but led to what appeared to be a large cave system. After exchanging several confused looks, Myranda led the way through the hole into the caverns.

The passageway they stepped into led off to the right, but the hole seemed to direct them on a more straightforward path, and so they followed it, travelling as quietly as Alistair's plate armor would allow. At one point Myranda stopped and looked at him, glancing down at the armor and then back up into his face with a raised eyebrow and a suggestive smirk, which he answered with slightly disapproving look, though his eyes sparkled with amusement. She giggled softly and shrugged before continuing down the passageway.

Myranda noticed Baby stiffen first, his short hair standing up as he growled softly and menacingly. She took the hint, drawing her blades before creeping forward into a large cavern room. A high-pitched shriek was the only warning they got before they were descended upon by dozens of baby dragons.

It was difficult, but the group managed to fight off the small reptiles. "What were you reading in Denerim about dragon cults?" Myranda asked Alistair as she looked around at the bleeding dragonlings.

"That they... worship dragons and eat the young?" he said.

"That sounds a bit counterintuitive," Wynne noted.

"Well... they eat the young mostly for the blood, from what I remember... it's supposed to make you really strong."

"But it also drives you crazy," Myranda added, walking over to one side of the room and shifting carefully through a large pile of rubble. "And I think these Disciples of Andraste are a dragon cult."

"What makes you say that?"

The loud click of a trap disarming preceded her turning to face them again. She held in her hands two of the snares. "These leghold traps weren't for intruders... not this far into the temple and not in this cave. They were for these baby dragons."

"So we'll have to watch for traps as well, yes?" Leliana asked.

"I don't know about in the passageways, though it's possible."

They continued down another long, narrow passageway, spending what felt like days in the caves, stopping when they grew tired and making camp. One evening they discovered a small dead-end room that must have been where the cultists kept food for the dragonlings, as they found several cages of goats around a large brazier. Taking advantage of the fire and the easy food source, they picked two of the animals to roast while Myranda managed to milk a third into her nearly empty water skin, storing it in the snow to cool it before passing the skin around. The roast goat was tender and delicious and the sweet milk provided a nice contrast to it.

Later that night after Wynne and Leliana fell asleep, Myranda lay close to the fire, shivering beneath her cloak and blanket even as she snuggled close to Alistair. "I'm so cold," she whispered around chattering teeth. "I've never been so cold in my life. What a stupid idea to climb into the bloody Frostbacks in the middle of winter."

"You couldn't control the timing," he murmured, rubbing her back.

"And you'll keep me warm, won't you?"

He smiled at her before kissing her softly. "Of course."

She returned the smile and the kiss, lengthening and deepening it as she snuggled closer. "I know a good way to warm up," she murmured after several minutes, sliding her hand down his chest and stomach.

Alistair lifted an eyebrow at her. "But... Wynne and Leliana are right over there," he said, glancing toward the other side of the brazier. He closed his eyes and gasped softly as her hand slid into his trousers, her fingers cool against his warm skin.

"We'll have to be quiet, then, won't we?" she whispered into his ear before trailing soft kisses down his neck.

"You're a bad girl, Myranda Cousland."

She giggled a little and rolled on top of him. "You keep saying that like it's a bad thing, my prince."

"Not at all, my lady." He closed his eyes and fought back a moan as she moved to slide him into her body. "Not at all."

 

 

The next morning they backtracked to the last junction and turned left, continuing down the passage that would hopefully take them to the Ashes. They walked for hours down the corridor, drawing their weapons at the sound of running feet ahead of them. They waited for an attack for a few minutes before realizing the footsteps had been heading away from them, then proceeded slowly. They reached the entrance to another large room and were met by a blast of magical energy that knocked Myranda back into Alistair, who immediately pushed her behind him and rushed into the cave. Myranda followed quickly, covered by a rain of arrows and magic from Leliana and Wynne.

They would have been all right just taking out the cultists if not for the three dozen large dragonlings that swarmed into the cave. Unlike the ones they had fought in the last cave, these were big enough to breathe small spits of fire. A large blizzard that could have only been formed by magic swirled around them, freezing most of the baby dragons in place before they fell over.

"I'd much prefer a fire spell!" Myranda called to the older woman, swinging her blades in a deadly whirlwind.

"Dragons would be immune to fire," Wynne replied, downing a lyrium potion before zapping a dragonling that was charging toward her.

"Damn it!" She looked around as she chopped the head off of another of the reptiles in time to see one of the larger ones barrel into Alistair, knocking him down. "Alistair!"

Alistair's sword spun across the stone as he hit the ground and the large dragonling pounced on him. It reared its head back, hissing and preparing for the kill before it suddenly collapsed, revealing the other Grey Warden, her sword dripping with dragon blood. He grinned up at her. "We make a good team."

She smiled. "In more ways than one," she said, reaching down to help him up. She looked around then. "Is everyone all right? Where's Baby?"

Baby whined then, limping over to her as he held up his front left paw, which was bleeding profusely.

"Baby!" Myranda cried, racing over to the animal. "Oh, my poor Baby. Let me see," she said, kneeling and taking his leg before wiping away the blood. The dog whined as she felt to see if the bone was broken. "You did well. Who's my good boy?" she cooed gently. "The bone's not broken, so we'll bandage you up and you'll be fine."

Baby barked.

"That's my good, brave boy," she said, patting him as he licked her cheek.

After bandaging everyone's assorted injuries, they continued through the cave toward a passage way on the other side, passing a small altar on one side with a statue of Andraste. Dozens of eggs—presumably dragon eggs—were piled around the base. There was a short debate on whether to destroy these future terrors, but in the end, they left them to the cold of the cave.

They wandered through caverns for hours before finding a hole in the cave wall—like the one that sent them into the caverns—leading back into the temple... or perhaps a different temple building, none of them knew. But exploring the temple seemed to promise to be more fruitful than continuing through the caves, so they climbed through this hole and up a set of stairs.

When they reached the massive double doors at the top of the long stair, Myranda pulled one open to be faced with a beautiful altar with a colossal statue of Andraste. A worn red carpet extended from the door to the feet of the statue. They were halfway into the room, looking around in awe, before the sound of hurrying feet alerted them to danger and swords, bow, teeth and magic were readied.

A man with short brown hair and a neatly trimmed beard suddenly rounded the base of the statue, heading toward them determinedly, flanked by a half dozen others. He wore heavy armor and a large battle axe was strapped to his back. "Stop!" he ordered. "You will go no further!"

"Oh?" Myranda challenged. "Is that so?"

The man walked over to her, close, but out of reach of her sword, glancing at the snarling mabari beside her. "You have defiled our temple. You have spilled the blood of the faithful, and slaughtered our young!"

"Who's he talking about?" Alistair murmured.

"The baby dragons, I guess," Myranda answered.

"No more," the man continued. "You will tell me now, intruder, why you have done all this. Why have you come here?"

"I have come for the Urn of Sacred Ashes."

The newcomer looked at her as if she were mad. Myranda was used to that by now. "You did this all for an ancient relic?" he asked in disbelief. "Know this, stranger: The prophet Andraste has overcome death itself and has returned to Her faithful in a form more radiant than you can imagine!" His eyes gleamed with a strange light and fire. "Not even the Tevinter Imperium could hope to slay Her now. What hope do you have?"

"And what, pray tell, has happened to the Ashes?" Wynne asked.

"They are still within this temple, but why do we need ashes when we serve the risen Andraste in all Her glory?"

"So... you can give me the Urn, then?" Myranda asked. Then she added persuasively, "If you don't _need_ them, I could take them off your hands for you, and then you needn't be bothered any longer."

The man looked thoughtful for a minute. "Perhaps there is a way for you to make up for your desecration of our home and temple," he mused. "Perhaps through Andraste's mercy, Her greatest enemy will become Her greatest champion."

Myranda lifted an eyebrow at this. This was not going to end well, she just knew it.

"Allow me to introduce myself: I am Father Kolgrim," he said with a slight tip of his head. "I lead the Disciples of Andraste."

"Another revered father... I might have guessed."

"The Ashes you seek reside atop this mountain, watched by an immortal guardian who refuses to accept the truth of the risen Lady. Now the Ashes prevent holy Andraste from fully realizing Her new form."

Myranda fought the sarcastic smirk that tried to climb up her lips. "Is that right?"

"They are a remnant of Her past incarnation," Kolgrim said seriously, "and She cannot move on as long as they exist."

"I could just imagine the grand cleric, if she were here," Alistair said with a smirk. "Her head would explode; I kid you not."

Myranda shot him an amused look, trying not to laugh aloud at the image of the grand cleric being so appalled that she would burst into flames. "So... what?" she said, turning back to Kolgrim. "You want to toss them out a window?"

"I speak not of destruction," Kolgrim said. "The Beloved needs to reclaim the Ashes, to make them Her own again. All it would take is a drop of Her blood."

Green eyes narrowed.

"Blood carries power, strength, knowledge. Through it, all the power that is held in the Ashes will be returned to our Lady."

"What is all this talk of blood and power?" Leliana murmured. "And he thinks Andraste is reborn? It is preposterous! Oh, I do not like this."

"Nor do I," the Grey Warden replied.

Baby barked and growled.

"Tell me, Kolgrim: if this simple thing is all it would take for your 'risen Lady' to claim to be Andraste..."

"She is Andraste!" the priest exclaimed.

"Then why have you not already done this?"

Kolgrim's face darkened and he turned away from her. "The Guardian has foiled all our attempts to reach the Urn," he said. "He keeps what power remains from the true Andraste. He knows the Disciples, and we cannot touch him, for he draws his strength from the Ashes themselves. But _you_..." He turned back to the Grey Warden and her companions. "You could deliver our Lady what is rightfully Hers!"

"There is nothing but madness in his words," Wynne said dismissively. "He is a fanatic, and a dangerous one."

"Indeed," Leliana agreed.

The priest shot them a dismissive glance before turning back to the blonde woman. "The rewards for performing such a service would be great indeed."

Green eyes blinked in shocked horror. "You would defile—have _me_ defile and _destroy_ the Sacred Ashes of Andraste? For _coin_?"

"Not coin," Kolgrim said. "Power. Status. A place in the new order under the risen Andraste!"

"You speak of evil!"

"Who are you to judge? You who have slaughtered our young... slaughtered the children of Andraste Herself!"

She snarled at him. "I will see you dead before I desecrate the Ashes!"

Kolgrim's face darkened again. "To arms, my brethren!" he called, pulling the massive axe from its holster on his back. "Andraste will grant us victory!"

Andraste Herself, however, seemed to have other ideas as, ten minutes later, the group was going through the dead zealots' pockets. The only thing of interest, however, was a bone horn that was emblazoned with a modified Chantry symbol, as well as a carving of a large dragon that had belonged to Kolgrim. Myranda pulled this out and studied it curiously, petting Baby when he nosed her before following the others up the pathway behind the large statue of Andraste.

A frigid wind gusted into their faces and, before long, they found themselves at a doorway leading to the open air and once again anchored in the path of the sun—or, more appropriately, the moon, as they found it to be dark outside. They retreated back to the relative warmth of the altar room before setting up a small campfire, sharing a small meal before settling down to sleep.

In the morning they returned to the mountaintop to find it covered with six inches of freshly-fallen snow, glittering in the weak winter sun. Much as she hated to disturb the pristine scene before them, their obvious goal was a small stone temple on the other side of the open-air passage, and so Myranda started forward through the snow. Though this part of the passage was relatively narrow it widened into what may at one time have been a courtyard for the temple beyond: a line of pillars in various stages of collapse marked the boundary while a small shrine, the roof of which had caved in, stood off to one side.

Myranda started into this courtyard before a large gust of wind buffeted her backwards, and the only thing that kept her from falling was Alistair catching her upper arms. He immediately pulled her against him and down toward the ground behind a partially collapsed pillar with Baby as Leliana and Wynne pressed themselves against another, more intact one. "Maker preserve us!" the blonde swore, looking up to see a large winged reptile circle over them before it landed on a small ridge just ahead. "Is that...?"

"That's a High Dragon," Alistair said, standing slowly and pulling her up with him. "A High Dragon is not a joke. We'd best be careful... _real_ careful."

"Oh, I'm not afraid," Wynne said with a dismissive wave. "It wouldn't eat me anyhow. Tough and stringy. You, on the other hand," she said, smiling teasingly at her young companions, "ought to be worried. Especially you," she added, turning to the mabari. 'You would make a perfect appetizer."

Baby barked bravely.

"They say music soothes the savage beast," Leliana said, "but I'm not going to test that theory."

"Music," Myranda murmured, pulling out the horn she had retrieved off Kolgrim's body. "I wonder...."

"What's that?"

"Kolgrim had this horn on him. I wonder if he used this to call the dragon—his Andraste."

"You think that he thought _that_ was Andraste?" Alistair asked.

"They're a dragon cult," she replied. "You heard how he accused me of killing Andraste's children, and the only young we killed were baby dragons."

"So what do we do about the dragon?" Leliana asked. "We can't very well leave it here to terrorize the surrounding area."

Myranda looked at Alistair, who seemed to force a smile.

"I can't convince you to use your bow, can I?" he asked.

"Nope."

"Can we at least not fight her here, so close to the edge of the cliff?"

"What about in that shrine?" Wynne suggested, pointing.

They made their way over to it carefully, keeping a watchful eye on the dragon on the ridge above. The shrine itself was apparently well used to the dragon's presence: deep scratches were scored into the stones by sharp claws and the walls were splattered with blood—most likely from victims judging by the many piles of skeletons. Plate armor was also scattered around the floor and a broken shield lay against the wall across from the door. It bore the crest of Redcliffe.

"Oh, dear Maker," Leliana breathed.

"How many people did Eirik and Kolgrim lead up here to sacrifice to that monster? In the name of their 'faith'?" Myranda looked again at the horn in her hand. "No more," she murmured. "We kill this dragon, and we'll destroy the rest of the cult. This cannot continue." She looked at the others. "Be ready. She'll probably attack us as soon as she lands." She looked at Wynne. "Can you immobilize her first? Take out her wings so she won't fly away?"

"Yes. I can try."

She turned to Leliana. "I would say aim for the eyes, but considering how the dragon in the Brecilian Ruin reacted to that strategy, I don't know if it would be a good idea."

"Any blind spot can be used to our advantage," the bard said.

"Good. So two range and two close combat." She smiled when Baby barked. "Sorry, three." She sighed and looked at Alistair. "Well."

"Sure I can't convince you to use your bow?"

"I'm not as good with the bow as with my blades. You know that."

He sighed. "You are a stubborn, stubborn woman, Myranda."

She smiled and tapped him on the nose. "Stop trying to protect me. I'll be fine, love."

Alistair breathed another heavy sigh. "All right." He pulled her out of the middle of the shrine and around the wall on the far side, so the dragon couldn't see them from its perch. He kissed her quickly before Baby, Leliana and Wynne joined them, then nodded. "Now call her."

Myranda returned the nod, wiped off the horn's mouthpiece with a corner of her shirt, put it to her lips, and blew hard. The single mid-toned note was followed by a roar and the beating of large wings grew louder until there was a loud thud from within the shrine. An idea hit her suddenly and she put a finger to her lips as she took Leliana's bow and pulled one arrow from her quiver, crooking her finger for the others to follow as she crept around the wall.

She peaked around the corner, watching the dragon looked around and roared with confusion and impatience. She knelt near the edge of the opening, pulled back, and fired the arrow straight into the monster's eye. She handed the bow quickly back as the huge creature roared with pain. "Go!" she cried, drawing her sword and dagger before following Alistair and Baby. The dragon lifted its wings to fly away from the threat and overpower it from above, but two large lightning bolts shot through the leathery membranes, grounding it. Again it roared in pain and rage, lashing out at its attackers as arrows pierced its neck and shoulder.

The battle was hard and long. Myranda knew a blade through the skull would kill the thing, but getting up to the head was proving to be difficult. It was time for bold moves.

"Strike when she comes for me!" she called to Alistair before running toward the beast and slashing her sword into the thing's flank to gain the back. Arrows flew down from the top of the wall, which Leliana had managed to gain, until the dragon's tail took out the wall with a vicious swing. It then whipped around and knocked Myranda off, sending her crashing to the ground, where she slid across the icy stone before coming to a halt.

Myranda winced and opened her eyes slowly as Leliana propped her up.

"Myranda! Are you all right?"

"I..." The Grey Warden blinked and looked back toward the battle. Her eyes widened in horror as she watched Alistair leap onto the dragon's head. " _No_!" she screamed, struggling to get to her feet.

"No, Myranda!" Leliana said, trying to restrain the other woman. "You mustn't try to move!"

"Let me go!" Myranda cried, fighting against her. "Let me go! _Alistair_!" She finally managed to kick the bard away and had no sooner gained her feet than was running toward the dragon, thrashing in its death throes. Alistair plunged his sword into its skull, and it straightened its neck up toward the sky, its massive jaws open, though no sound came out.

It was at this point that he lost his footing.

Myranda skidded to a stop as she watched him fall, staring in terror as he hit the ground hard and didn't move. Tears flooded her eyes as she panted with fear, feeling the seed of hysteria starting to take root inside her as the dragon collapsed, somehow managing not to fall on him. "No," she whispered, shaking her head. She ran toward him again without being aware of what she was doing. "Alistair!" she yelled, rushing over. "Alistair!"

Wynne was beside the young Templar immediately and set to assessing and healing the damage. She couldn't let him die... not here, not now. She reached through the Fade, calling on those spirits of Life and Energy and channeling their power, determined not to lose this battle with Death.

The other Grey Warden fell to her knees next to the mage, staring at Alistair with a mixture of horror and dread. He was so still... "Alistair..." she whispered. "No... no...." Two tears fell down her cheeks and she closed her eyes against the rest. She shifted to sit on the rock, drawing her knees up and lowering her head, waiting for madness, despair... _anything_ to take her. A need to hurl herself off the cliff would be better than the emptiness she felt now.

Wynne's hands glowed white as she cast the healing spells, her eyes closed in concentration as she worked to mend the more serious injuries. Finally, she almost felt his consciousness return to him and a soft sigh of relief escaped her, opening her eyes and lowering her hands. Reaching into her bag, she pulled out a bottle of lyrium and took a long pull, feeling her powers and strength returning.

Alistair groaned as he sat up slowly. "Wow. That'll make you dizzy, make no mistake!"

Myranda gasped and lifted her head, looking over at him. "Alistair!" she cried, throwing her arms around his neck and practically tackling him as she hugged him tightly.

"Ow, ow, ow!!!"

"Easy," Wynne chided, though gently.

"Sorry, sorry!" Myranda said, releasing Alistair almost immediately. "Are you all right?" she asked him.

"I think so. I landed on my head, I think, so nothing vital was in danger." He smirked at her, but she just frowned sternly at him.

"Don't you _dare_ scare me like that again!" she ordered. "That could have killed you!"

His smile softened and he pulled off his gauntlet before reaching up and wiping away her tears. "I'm sorry, love," he said.

Myranda hugged him again—more gently this time. "Just... don't scare me like that again."

"All right," he murmured. "I'm sorry."

She smiled a little at him before looking around. "Is everyone else all right? Baby?"

The mabari barked, smiling his doggy grin despite being covered in dragon blood... or perhaps because of it.

Myranda smiled. "You are a gory mess," she said, rubbing him.

"He's not the only one," Alistair said.

"And you're one to talk," Myranda replied with a grin.

Baby barked and bounded out into the snow, rolling in it and getting soaking wet, but managing to wash most of the blood off. He stood up, sneezed violently twice, and trotted back over to his mistress, barking.

"There's my smart boy!" she said around her soft laughter. "Who's my good boy?"

They headed back to the courtyard, scrubbing off the dragon blood with snow until, wet and cold, they headed toward the small temple they had seen before. There was no door, just an entryway that led inside a few feet before turning sharply to the right, then left again, deep into the mountain.

"What is this place?" Alistair asked. "It's different from the rest of the ruins."

"We... we must be close," Leliana murmured. "This is holy ground. I can feel it."

They entered what appeared to be a large anteroom, elegant in its simplicity. The only figure was an armored guard in front of a large stone doorway on the opposite side of the room, real, but strangely incorporeal. He held up a hand when Myranda stopped and reached hesitantly for her sword. "Hold," he said, his voice echoed in a mysterious, unearthly way. "I bid you welcome, pilgrim."

"Who are you?" the blonde asked starting forward again.

"I am the Guardian," he said, "the protector of the Urn of Sacred Ashes. I have waited years for this."

Green eyes blinked. "For me... us?"

"You are the first to arrive in a very long time," the Guardian told her. "It has been my duty, my life, to protect the Urn and prepare the way for the faithful who come to revere Andraste. For years beyond counting have I been here, and shall I remain until my task is done and the Imperium has crumbled into the sea."

"The Imperium is no longer as powerful as it once was," Wynne said.

"Ah... is it not? Then perhaps this is the beginning of the end..."

"What do you know about these cultists... those who call themselves the Disciples of Andraste?" Myranda asked.

"When my brethren and I carried Andraste from Tevinter to this sanctuary," the spirit explained, "we vowed to forever revere Her memory, and guard Her. I have watched generations of my brethren take up the mantle of their fathers. For centuries they did this, unwavering, joyful in their appointed task. But now they have lost their way. They have forgotten Andraste, and their promise."

"So they _were_ a dragon cult," Alistair said, "thinking the dragon was Andraste."

"But why?" Leliana asked. "Why such a terrible creature as that?"

"The dragon is a fearsome creature," the Guardian put in, "and my brethren must have seen her as an alternative to the absent Maker and His silent Andraste. A true believer would not require audacious displays of power."

"We would like to see the Urn," Myranda said.

The Guardian nodded. "You have come to honor Andraste, and you shall... _if_ you prove yourself worthy."

"So we have to fight you?" she asked, starting to reach for her sword again.

"It is not my place to decide your worthiness," he replied calmly. "The Gauntlet does that."

"The Gauntlet?" she repeated. "What is the Gauntlet?"

"The Gauntlet tells the true pilgrims from the false. You will undergo four tests of faith, and we shall see how your soul fares. If you are found worthy, you will see the Urn and be allowed to take a small pinch of the Ashes for yourself. If not...." He didn't voice the alternative, but he didn't have to, and the echoed quality of his voice only made it sound more menacing.

Myranda took a deep breath. "All right, let's get this over with then."

"Before you go," the Guardian interjected, "there is something I must ask. I see that the path that led you here was not easy. There is suffering in your past—your suffering, and the suffering of others."

The Grey Warden narrowed her eyes. She didn't like where this was going.

"You abandoned your father and mother," the Guardian said calmly, not seeming to notice how the blonde young woman's eyes widened in shock, "leaving them in the hands of Rendon Howe, knowing he would show no mercy. Do you think you failed your parents?"

Myranda felt as if she'd been punched in the stomach and stabbed through the heart. She felt Alistair move closer to her and she could sense the surprise at this revelation from Wynne and Leliana, but ignored them all. "How do you know of my past?" she whispered in horror as Baby growled deeply at the Guardian.

"Your path is laid out before me and plain to see—in the lines of your face and the scars on your heart," the Guardian said. "Do you believe you failed your parents?" he repeated.

It was difficult to breathe. Her grief and guilt crashed upon her like a wave, and Alistair's comforting hand on her shoulder could not stop it. She lowered her head to hide the tears that welled in her eyes. "Yes," she said, her voice cracking with the weight of her shame. "I should have defended them to the death."

"Thank you," the Guardian said calmly. "That is all I wished to know."

"You are too hard on yourself, love," Alistair murmured soothingly. "No one's perfect."

"Accept your failings, but do not let them govern your life," Wynne told her gently.

"You could not have known what would happen," Leliana added. "You did what you thought was best."

The blonde sniffled and ran her hand over her cheeks to wipe away the tears that had escaped before lifting her head again. "All right," she said, gathering her courage and resolve around her like a cloak. "You've asked your question. Now let us pass."

"But what of those that follow you?" the Guardian said in his soft, unearthly and omniscient voice.

Myranda's eyes widened, an icy chill sweeping through her.

"Alistair, knight and Warden," the Guardian said, turning to him, "you wonder if things would have been different if you were with Duncan on the battlefield."

Alistair was stunned. How could he have known...? He hadn't even told Myranda how guilty he still felt about that.

"You could've shielded him from the killing blow," the Guardian continued. "You wonder, don't you, if _you_ should have died and not him."

"I..." He sighed, closing his eyes as his hand slid from Myranda's shoulder. "Yes. If Duncan had been saved, and not me, everything would be better. If I'd just had the chance, maybe I..." his voice trailed off and he shook his head.

Myranda frowned. Everything would be better if he'd died? Did he truly believe that? She reached over and took his hand, interlacing their fingers gently. She tried to smile when he looked up at her, but the attempt failed for the most part. Instead she stepped closer to him to try to comfort him with her presence alone, tilting her head to rest her forehead against his as he leaned toward her.

Wynne watched the display with sympathy before a sense of righteousness swept through her. She turned to the ghostly figure. "Ask your question, Guardian," she said, the words almost a challenge. "I am ready."

The figure looked at her. "You are ever the advisor, ready with a word of wisdom. Do you wonder if you spout only platitudes, burned into your mind in the distant past? Perhaps you are only a tool used to spread the word of the Circle and the Chantry. Does doubt ever chip away at your truths?"

"You frame the statement in the form of a question, yet you already know our answers," she said. She sighed then. "There is no sense in hiding, is there? Yes. I do doubt at times. Only the fool is completely certain of himself."

"And you..." the Guardian went on, turning to Leliana, "why do you say the Maker speaks to you, when all know that the Maker has left? He spoke only to Andraste. Do you believe yourself Her equal?"

Leliana blinked in surprise. "I never said that!" she retorted. "I—"

"In Orlais, you were _someone_ ," the spirit interrupted. "In Lothering, you feared you would lose yourself, become a drab sister, and disappear."

The redhead looked away, as if not daring to face the spirit any longer.

"When your brothers and sisters of the cloister criticized you for what you professed, you were hurt, but you also reveled in it." This last made the bright blue eyes snap back up. "It made you special. You enjoyed the attention, even if it was negative."

"You're saying that I made it up, for... for the _attention_?" Leliana asked incredulously. Her face darkened then. "I did not! I know what I believe!"

The Guardian bowed his head slightly to them. "The way is open," he said. "Good luck, and may you find what you seek." With that, he vanished, the door opening on its own as he did so.

Myranda looked at Wynne before reaching out and putting a hand on Leliana's shoulder while squeezing Alistair's hand gently. She said nothing before leading the way inside, knowing in her soul that this would be neither fun nor easy for any of them.


	28. The Trials of Andraste

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party goes through the Gauntlet and Myranda starts to let go. Thane Shartan based on Chayton Mahariel by the very talented Devileve on deviantart

**Chapter 28: The Trials of Andraste**

_"Let me embrace thee, sour adversity, for wise men say it is the wisest course." ~William Shakespeare_

 

The room they walked into was nothing less than massive—a huge gathering area graced with tall, Tevinter pointed arches that supported the high ceiling and were propped up by gigantic columns. Amidst these stood eight ghostly figures, four on each side of the room. That they did not all attack immediately the group took as a promising sign that they wouldn't.

"So, what now?" Alistair asked.

"I suppose we have to speak to these spirits," Wynne said.

Myranda looked from one side of the room to the other. "Left or right?"

"Left," Leliana said.

The blonde nodded. "Left it is," she said, approaching the first figure on their left, a lovely middle aged woman with long straight hair who wore a gown from at least three Ages past.

The spirit nodded to them in acknowledgement. "Echoes from a shadow realm, whispers of things yet to come. Thought's strange sister dwells in night, is swept away by dawning light. Of what do I speak?"

The group looked around at each other. Whatever they had expected, riddles had not been it.

"Thought's strange sister..." The answer came to Myranda suddenly. "Is it a dream?" she asked.

The spirit nodded. "I am Brona, mother of Andraste," she explained. "A dream came upon me as my daughter slumbered beneath my heart. It told of her life and of her betrayal and death." She bowed her head sadly. "I am sorrow and regret. I am a mother weeping bitter tears for a daughter she could not save." And, with that, she vanished.

"So it's riddles," Wynne said. "I'm sure we'll have no problems."

"Between the four of us, perhaps," Myranda said. "I got this one by pure luck."

"Luck is all it takes sometimes!" Leliana said. "Luck and faith."

Myranda looked at Alistair and smiled a little. "Yes," she murmured as he smiled back at her. "Faith."

They moved to the next figure, deciding to go down the left side before coming back up the other. The next spirit was a young woman, a vibrant soul with long braided pigtails that greeted them with a shy but warm smile. "The smallest lark could carry it," she said, "while a strong man might not. Of what do I speak?"

Myranda puzzled over this for a moment. "What could a lark carry that a man could not?" she asked, turning to her companions.

It was Leliana who came up with the answer. "A tune!" she cried.

"Yes," the spirit said with a nod and a smile. "I am Ealisay; I was Andraste's dearest friend in childhood, and always we would sing. She celebrated the beauty of life, and all who heard Her would be filled with joy. They say the Maker Himself was moved by Andraste's song," she went on, her smile suddenly becoming sadder, "and then She sang no more of simple things." The smile had faded to a gentle frown by the time she vanished.

"That's so sad," Leliana murmured. "She made it sound like Andraste's being chosen was a bad thing."

"Such paths are never easy, Leliana," Wynne said. "To be called upon by the Maker to do good works would be an honor, but such a decision would change you and would affect those around you... as I'm sure the Grey Wardens could tell you."

"Andraste was a woman before She was the Beloved and Divine Bride of the Maker," Myranda murmured. "I'm sure before She was chosen She had hopes and dreams like any other."

The bard frowned. "I suppose She did," she said after a moment. "It's so easy to forget there was a time before She was the Maker's Chosen."

They moved to the next figure: a young man in Chantry robes. He seemed to eye them calculatingly before speaking.

"No man has seen it, but all men know it. Lighter than air, sharper than any sword. Comes from nothing, but will fell the strongest armies. Of what do I speak?"

The group puzzled over this for a moment before Alistair's stomach provided the answer by growling loudly. Myranda looked over at him and smiled, placing her hand on his armor over his stomach. "Hunger, I think, would be the right answer," she said to the spirit.

He nodded approvingly. "Yes, hunger was the weapon used against the wicked men of the Tevinter Imperium. The Maker kindled the sun's flame, scorching the land. Their crops failed, and their armies could not march. Then He opened the heavens and bade the waters flow, and washed away their filth." He seemed to puff out his chest with pleasure. "I am Cathaire, disciple of Andraste and commander of Her armies," he said proudly before smiling. "I saw these things done, and knew the Maker smiled on us!" He, too, vanished after this speech.

"Sorry," Alistair muttered sheepishly.

Myranda giggled. "Don't apologize. You helped me answer the riddle." She kissed him on the cheek before digging around in her pack for a small wheel—minus a small wedge—of a banded cheese that she knew was creamy and tangy around the outside and firmer in the middle. She had pilfered it from a shop in Haven... one of the things she and Zevran had done while securing the town. He accepted this with a surprised and delighted smile. He offered some to the others, and though Wynne and Leliana demurred, Myranda gladly accepted a piece. She finished this before continuing to the last spirit on this side of the room.

This time it was the spirit of an elf, his long hair loosely pulled back at the nape of his neck. Even in his ghostly form his naked torso was covered in tattoos: lighter markings followed the lines of muscles on his chest and stomach and banded around his arms while darker, more interesting figures covered the sides of his neck and over the tops of his shoulders. His face was also tattooed, his forehead intricately so. Most striking, however, was the band of dark paint from his eyebrows to his cheekbones, so that he appeared to wear a mask.

"I'd neither a guest nor a trespasser be," he said, "in this place I belong, that belongs also to me. Of what do I speak?"

"You speak of home, Thane Shartan," Wynne said.

The spirit of Shartan looked at her and gave her an almost curt nod. "It was my dream for the people to have a home of their own," he said, "where we would have no masters but ourselves. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, and thus we followed Andraste against the Imperium." His brow dropped and his face darkened then. "But She was betrayed," he said coldly, "and so were we." And then he disappeared.

"So _that_ was Thane Shartan," Leliana breathed.

"He was quite stunning, wasn't he?" Myranda said. "But how did you know who he was?" she asked Wynne.

The mage shrugged. "What else is there to do in a tower with no windows but read?" she asked with a smile.

The blonde returned the grin before crossing the room toward the next spirit: an older man with a short beard in an old style of armor. She heard a soft gasp behind her.

"That's Maferath!" Leliana whispered. "Husband of Andraste!"

The spirit spoke then. "A poison of the soul, passion's cruel counterpart; from love she grows, till love lies slain. Of what do I speak?"

"Jealousy."

It was Alistair who spoke, his voice weighted with a dark emotion Myranda hadn't truly thought him capable of.

"Yes," the spirit said heavily, "jealousy drove me to betrayal. I was the greatest general of the Alammari... but beside Her, I was nothing. Hundreds fell before Her on bended knee, they loved Her, as did the Maker." The spirit shook his head, a great sadness crossing his ghostly features. " _I_ loved Her too," he said, "but what man can compare with a _god_?" And with that, the spirit vanished.

Myranda turned slowly to Alistair, looking at him concernedly. He looked back at her for a moment before lowering his eyes, but not before she caught the look of complete misery and shame. She lifted her hand to his face, smiling gently at him when he looked back at her. She said nothing. She didn't have to. She knew that he would see the love and forgiveness she felt. He smiled a little and nodded. She nodded slightly in return, then moved to the next figure.

It was another woman, dressed in antique leather armor, who eyed them disdainfully. "An eye for an eye," she said, "a tooth for a tooth. The debt of blood must be paid in full. Of what do I speak?"

Myranda's eyes narrowed as a familiar poison rushed through her veins. "Vengeance," she said, her voice harsh.

The spirit nodded. "Yes. My husband Hessarian would have chosen a quick death for Andraste. I made him swear that She would die publicly with Her warleaders, that all would know the Imperium's strength." She straightened her spine with a regal haughtiness. "I am justice. I am vengeance. Blood can only be repaid in blood." She lifted her chin and vanished.

Myranda let the raging fire that was her need for vengeance swell through her, until a gentle touch on her shoulder reminded her where she was, and she was suddenly ashamed of it. She looked back at Alistair guiltily, only to be met with a small smile... so much like the one she had given him. He knew: and it was all right. She gave him a tiny smile in return and he squeezed her shoulder gently before sliding his fingers lightly down her arm to take her hand.

They approached the next figure, a man all of them recognized. He had almost as many statues around Thedas as Andraste Herself, his name an integral part of Her legend: the husband of the woman they had just faced, dressed in magnificent robes with feathered pauldrons. He bowed to them before speaking.

"She wields the broken sword," he said, "and separates true kings from tyrants. Of what do I speak?"

"It is mercy, Archon Hessarian," Leliana said.

"Yes," he said with another slight bow. "I could not bear the sight of Andraste's suffering, and mercy bade me end Her life." He straightened his spine as his wife had done, but bowed his head humbly. "I am the penitent sinner," he said as he slowly faded from sight, "who shows compassion as he hopes compassion will be shown to him."

The last spirit they approached was an older man in Chantry robes.

"The bones of the world stretch towards the sky's embrace," he said. "Veiled in white, like a bride greeting her groom. Of what do I speak?"

"The bones of the world..." Wynne said softly to herself.

"Veiled in white?" Leliana repeated, looking bewildered.

Myranda puzzled over this until Alistair gently squeezed her hand. When she looked back at him, he made a great show of looking around him. This confused her only for a moment before she realized he had stumbled on the answer and she smiled.

"Is it the mountains?" she asked, turning back to the spirit.

He nodded sadly. "Yes. I, Disciple Havard, carried Andraste's Ashes out of Tevinter into the mountains to the east where She could gaze ever into Her Maker's sky..." He looked around as he, too, disappeared. "No more fitting a tomb than this could we find."

The door at the far end of the hall suddenly flew open with a bang, revealing a single figure on the other side. His back was turned to them, and he appeared to be considering the statue of Andraste set into the wall. Myranda approached him carefully, her footsteps slowing as her disbelief grew. He turned to her when she reached the threshold, and she stopped dead in her tracks, her hand slipping from Alistair's.

"My dearest child..."

Myranda gazed at the image with wide, unbelieving eyes, instantly recognizing the features of the man she'd known since her birth. "Father?" she breathed, taking a hesitant step forward. Even Baby whined uncertainly.

The vision frowned slightly. "You know that I am gone, and all your prayers and wishes will not bring me back."

She closed her eyes and lowered her head. It was true: her father was dead, no thanks to her.

"I know you miss me, Pup," the ghostly image of her father said soothingly. "But my death and life no longer have a hold on you. Set your eyes on the horizon. Do not look back and do not falter." He smiled a little at her when she lifted her eyes again. "No more must you grieve, my girl," he said. "Take the pain and the guilt, acknowledge it, and let go." He reached out and put a hand on her shoulder, and, for a moment, it felt real. "It is time, Myranda."

Myranda bit her lip to stop its quivering, but could do nothing about the pair of tears that fell from her eyes.

"You have such a long road ahead of you, and you _must_ be prepared. And so I leave this in your hands." He handed her a small and very real amulet and smiled gently at her. "I know you will do great things with it."

"Don't leave me, Father," she whispered, grabbing for his hand and managing to take it. "Papa, please..."

Bryce smiled gently. "Everything will be all right, Pup, I promise. Remember that you're my darling daughter and I love you. You've grown into a sensible woman, and you have a fine man who loves you dearly."

"Thank you, Your Grace," Alistair murmured with a bow.

The teyrn's ghost nodded. "I must go," he said, turning back to Myranda. "Stay strong, my girl, and remember that I'm proud of you. I always have been."

Myranda managed a watery smile. "Thank you, Father."

He smiled in return, squeezing her hand before releasing it and stepping away from her. Then, in a flash of bright white light, he was gone.

Myranda held her hand out to where the ghost of her father had been before looking at the amulet in her hand. It was a simple piece with an archaic symbol of the Chantry on the front. The back was a highly mirrored silver and, after she stared at it a moment, she thought she saw an image of her father's face, smiling encouragingly at her. She gently closed her hand around the amulet and held it close to her heart, lowering her head. "Oh, Papa," she whispered, squeezing her eyes shut against the tears. She felt Alistair's arms wrap around her waist, hugging her gently from behind as Baby whined and nosed her.

"Myranda?" Leliana's voice was soft and laced with a gentle concern.

When Myranda lifted her head several long moments later, her face was empty of expression. "Let's go," she said flatly, tucking the amulet away and wiping away the tears that had escaped to run down her cheeks.

They stopped short when they rounded the next corner. There was another group in front of them, which turned to face them as they entered. There were five of them: three women, a man and a black mabari. They were obviously led by the blonde young woman with black streaks in her hair and green eyes that were so dark to be almost black—a shadowy version of Myranda. She drew her sword and her shadow did as well. The groups stood, mabari barking and snarling at each other.

"Is it a mirror?" Myranda asked softly.

Shadow Myranda seemed to smirk at this question before charging them. The two sides came together in a clash of arms.

Myranda blocked this first hit before throwing her back, finding every attack she thought about making anticipated. She jumped out of the way as Alistair blocked the next attack. "Be careful," she warned before taking off into the fray, dancing out of the way of arrows from Shadow Leliana, sneaking toward the corner of the room.

She appeared suddenly behind Wynne's shadow as she prepared a bolt for Baby, slicing her sword through the air to remove the mage's head with a savage yell. Almost immediately afterward she was knocked away by a ferocious shield blow, groaning as she hit the floor. She shook her head and looked up to find Alistair—or rather, his shadow—looming over her. She brought her foot around hard, tripping him and sending him to the floor before moving out of striking range. Unlike in their practice session on the _Fiona_ , Alistair's shadow had gone down shield ready and sword still poised for the kill.

An arrow flew into her thigh and she grimaced turning in time to dodge the next arrow that was aimed for her chest.

"Duck, Myranda!"

She didn't question Leliana's voice, just dropped to the ground before an arrow zipped through the air and into Alistair's shadow. She scrambled to her feet to avoid being made a pincushion until Alistair himself managed to neutralize that threat. "Alistair!" she called, seeing her shadow sneaking up on him. "On your right!"

Alistair slashed without thinking, horrified when he found Myranda dancing away from him with a shallow wound in her stomach. She looked up at him and he saw to his immediate relief that it was her shadow he had injured. The shadow launched herself at him again, and he somehow managed to block every attack when she suddenly stumbled and fell forward, a knife protruding from her back.

The Grey Warden herself strode over then. "Are you all right?"

"Yes... yes, I think so."

"I told you that you might have to fight me one day," she said.

He winced. "That didn't make it any easier."

"Should I be worried about the ferocity with which you decapitated my shadow, Myranda?" Wynne asked with an amused smirk.

"Not anymore." She looked around. "I'm sure this was symbolic of something... fighting your worse half, perhaps?"

Baby barked.

They continued into the next room that was dominated by a large chasm, with a doorway on the other side.

"Well," Wynne said, "looks like there's only one way forward."

"But how do we get across?" Myranda asked. "There's no way to jump it."

"Hey, you see those... thingies over on the side of that huge chasm?" Alistair asked, pointing to the large tiles on either side of the rift. "I bet they're used for something."

"Alistair," Leliana began, "normal people tend to avoid strange-looking sections of the floor—'thingies,' as you say. They tend to be traps."

Alistair looked at the bard uncertainly. "You don't really think they're traps, do you?"

The loud sound of stone scraping against stone drew their attention back to the crevasse, where a large but incorporeal bolder floated near the middle of the gap. Myranda was standing on one of the plates.

She grinned at Alistair. "You're so clever, my love."

"That may be a bridge—or part of one—but there's no way to cross on that," Wynne pointed out.

Leliana helped in this endeavor by stepping on another plate, which caused another stone to materialize while the first became completely solid. "Oh, I see," she said. "Like stepping stones! We must create the bridge to get across."

"Wonderful," Alistair muttered. "Puzzles. I'm terrible at puzzles."

"All right," Myranda said. "Let's see which stone does what." She made a quick circuit around the chasm, making a mental note of which plates triggered which stones. "This should be easy enough," she said, walking back to the group a few minutes later. "Let's see... Leliana, if you would stand on that square," she said, pointing to the second plate on her right, "And Wynne, if you'll stand on that one over there," she said, pointing at the third stone on the left side.

The first two bridge stones materialized as Leliana stepped on the marker, the first one becoming solid as Wynne stepped onto the second.

"Right," Myranda said, stepping onto the first stone. "Now, Wynne, if you'd step off of that one and onto—" her voice cut off into a scream as the stone beneath her feet suddenly lost its solidity.

"Myranda!"

Myranda was suddenly stopped from falling into the abysmal darkness and swung painfully back against the wall. She looked up to see Alistair holding onto her wrist tightly, staring down at her with a strange mixture of terror and relief.

She reached up and dug her fingers into the jagged rock face as her foot found a small outcropping, pushing herself up as Alistair pulled her over the ledge. She had barely gained the top when he wrapped his arms tightly around her and she was somewhat surprised to discover that she was quivering.

"Maker's mercy!" he breathed into her ear. "I thought I'd lost you."

She clung desperately to him, willing her breathing to slow and her mind to clear. She was alive. She was alive and safe.

"That was close," Leliana said. "Perhaps too close. Maybe one of us should try, next time?"

Myranda shook her head. "No," she said. "It's just not as easy as I thought. It simply needs more planning." She looked up. "I need to see which markers make which stones appear, then plan precisely how to move everyone."

With pen and parchment borrowed from Leliana, Myranda moved slowly from plate to plate, marking down which made what bridge stones appear and then scribbling figures at the bottom. "All right," she said after several long minutes. "Let's see... Leliana..."

"Yes?"

"If you would stand on the third marker on the left side. Wynne: the last one on that side. And Alistair, if you'd move to the second marker on this side," she said, pointing to her right. Her heart thudded in her chest as the first two stones of the bridge again materialized before her. She took a deep breath and set her features. "Come on, Baby," she murmured as she stepped out onto the bridge again. She strode slowly out onto the second stone, the mabari padding softly next to her. "All right," she said. "Leliana, I need you to move to the fourth stone on this side," she instructed, pointing to her right.

"Right away," the redhead replied, stepping back off of her marker.

There was a sound like two rocks scraping against one another as the stone behind her lost its solidity, then again as an apparition of the one in front of her appeared. The one she stood on remained completely solid.

Myranda sighed. So far, so good. Now came the hard part—the part that would prove whether or not her theory about the logic of the bridge puzzle was correct or fatally wrong.

She looked at Alistair. He looked back at her, nearly frantic in his worry. "When I say," she called to him, "step back."

"But I..."

"Alistair," she interrupted. She said nothing else, simply lifted her hand to her heart, smiling gently at him.

They stared at each other for several long moments before his expression went blank. He lifted his fist to his chest, placing it over his heart before bowing his head. It was a salute… and a begrudging acceptance.

Myranda sighed and looked forward again. She whispered a small prayer, then lifted her chin and closed her eyes. "Now."

There was a pause, then the horrid scraping of rock against rock, impossibly loud in her ears.

"Myranda!"

Myranda opened her eyes. The doorway across the chasm beckoned invitingly. She was alive! The stone beneath her feet had not vanished. She looked over her shoulder at Alistair, who was standing behind the marker and looked like he was about to pass out in sheer relief. Leliana was laughing and Baby barked next to her.

"Myranda!" Leliana called again. "The Maker Himself must be watching you!"

"I'm sure it helps that I have one of His Chantry sisters with me!" Myranda called back, trying not to give way to her own hysterically delighted laughter. "Alistair," she called, turning back to him.

"My love?"

"I need you to stand on the first marker on the other side."

She directed her comrades around the room, stepping on new sections of the bridge as they appeared before her, feeling immensely relieved when she stepped off of the bridge and onto the solid floor again. She turned back as the horrid noise of falling boulders roared through the cavern only to see all of the bridge stones hovering solidly in the air. "I think it's safe," she called. "So the rest of you can cross now."

Alistair was the first one across, where he promptly gathered her in his arms and kissed her forcefully, obviously forgetting their companions. She returned it instantly, letting him pull away a few moments later and hug her tightly. "I know I don't tell you enough," he whispered into her ear, "but I love you."

Myranda smiled, nuzzling his neck. "I love you, too," she murmured.

"Don't scare me like that again. Please."

"I'll try."

"That was quite exciting!" Leliana said. "Can we do it again?"

"No!" Alistair said, holding Myranda tighter. "Maker's breath... I think once is all my nerves could take!"

"Andraste only favored the clever, it seems," Myranda said, kissing Alistair on the cheek before stepping out of his embrace, though holding onto his hand as they moved to the next room.

This next proved to be the final room. In front of them blazed a chest-high wall of flame, and beyond, wavering from the heated air, was an altar, with a huge statue of Andraste. It was difficult to tell, but it looked as if there was a small vase at her feet.

"By the Maker," Alistair breathed. "It's... it's the Urn of Sacred Ashes. That's it! That's really it!"

"But how do we get to it?" Myranda asked.

"There seems to be something written here," Wynne said, leaning over a small altar stone. "But I can't make it out. One of you with young eyes will have to read it."

Myranda leaned over the altar, which was little more than a dusty stone slab, only just making out the inscription carved into its face. "'Cast off the trappings of worldly life and'... clock? No..." She ran her fingers over the nearly obscured letters. "'And _cloak_ yourself in the goodness of spirit. King and slave, lord and beggar; be born anew in the Maker's sight.'" Her brow furrowed in confusion. "What in Andraste's name could _that_ mean?" She looked up to find Leliana had put down her bow and quiver and was in the process of unbuckling her armor. "Leliana? What-what are you doing?"

Blue eyes lifted to her. "It says to cast off the trappings of your worldly life, yes?" she asked, shrugging off her breastplate. "To be born anew? We must cloak ourselves solely in the goodness of our spirits, to pass naked through the flames."

"Are you _serious_?" Myranda squeaked as the other young woman continued to undress.

"It seems the obvious solution."

Myranda looked at Alistair, who had dutifully looked away when the bard had undressed beyond the point of propriety. It may have been the fire's glow, but she was certain he was blushing a bright crimson. She looked back to find the bard had completely undressed and was standing before the flames. The light and shadows danced across her skin, her willowy body silhouetted against the blaze. The redhead seemed to take a deep breath before reaching out her hand toward the fire, looking back and grinning at Myranda as the flames licked around her fingers, but apparently did not burn her. She turned to face forward again before stepping forward into the wall of fire, passing through to the other side.

Wynne went next, both Grey Wardens looking away as the mage slipped out of her robes and walked through the flames. Myranda knelt and removed Baby's collar, allowing him to leap forward after Wynne and Leliana, before turning to Alistair. "Are you going first or shall I?"

"You're not going first. I can't take it."

"We know this works. I won't be in any danger." She smirked at him. "I'm surprised you would pass up an opportunity to see me naked."

He gave her a slightly admonishing look as he removed his sword belt. "Now's not the time."

"I'll try to control my less-than-holy desires," she said, moving to unbuckle his chestplate. She raised an eyebrow at him when he started to remove her armor as well.

"We'll go together," he said.

She smiled and nodded. They continued to undress each other, though being careful not to touch too much, lest they forget the purpose of their errand. A glance at the colossal statue of Andraste proved a good reminder and cooled their blood immediately. When they stood before the wall of flames, Myranda took a deep breath, glancing at Alistair when he took her hand and nodding before closing her eyes and stepping forward.

Though she could feel the flames licking at her skin, she felt no heat, only a gentle brushing, as of a blanket being wrapped around her bare body. She was pulled to a halt after five steps and opened her eyes to find her companions had somehow regained their clothes—and, looking down, discovered she had as well. She looked over at Alistair, then at Leliana, and smiled, turning at the sudden sound of a voice behind her.

"You have been through the trials of the Gauntlet," the Guardian said to them. "You have walked the path of Andraste, and like Her, you have been cleansed. You have proven yourselves worthy, pilgrims. Approach the Sacred Ashes."

Myranda looked around at her companions then at the large staircase, swallowing hard before she slowly ascended. Her heart pounded in her chest and echoed in her ears as she approached the sacred vessel, the Urn that held the remains of the Chantry's prophet Andraste. It was amazing how simple the vase was: rather than gold or silver, it was made of simple clay, with no markings to reveal the holy relic it contained.

"I never dreamed I would _ever_ lay my eyes on the Urn of Sacred Ashes," Leliana said softly from behind Myranda. "I... I-I... I have no words to express..."

"I didn't think anyone could succeed in finding Andraste's final resting place," Alistair murmured. "But here... here She is."

"I could not have asked for a greater honor than to be here," Wynne added. "I will never forget this feeling."

Myranda knelt before the Urn, lowering her head reverently over her clasped hands. "Blessed Andraste," she murmured. "I thank You for Your guidance and Your wisdom to help us through Your trials. I pray that You will keep and comfort all who fell in the face of this Blight, and that You will help us through the troubled times ahead. Keep my father, Bryce Cousland, the Grey Warden Duncan, and good King Cailan beside You and help them to find peace."

"So let it be," Leliana said.

"So let it be," Alistair repeated, though in a much sadder tone.

Myranda opened her eyes and stood, staring at the Urn. She glanced at Alistair briefly and then back at the Urn.

"What's the matter?" he murmured after several minutes.

"I... I can't," she whispered. "I'm not worthy."

Alistair smiled gently at her. "Who is, if not you?"

She looked up at him and smiled a little before taking a deep breath and reached out, her hand hesitating before she lifted the lid from the sacred Urn. She handed the lid off to someone—she wasn't sure who—and reached out again, pulling her hand back to wipe her fingers on her armor before reaching out again and taking a large pinch of the Ashes. These she placed gently into a small metal box she had brought with her for the purpose before putting this into a small pouch on a long cord. She replaced the lid on the Urn, and only then did she release the breath she hadn't realized she had been holding. "Holy Maker," she whispered, staring at her fingertips.

"Come," Wynne said gently. "We should get back to Genitivi."

"And be on our way back to Redcliffe," Alistair added.

Myranda nodded. "Yes," she said, slipping the small bag into the pouch on her belt. She pulled out the amulet she had gotten from the ghost of her father and frowned. "Yes," she said again, more heavily. "Let's go."

 

 

They traveled back through the temple of the Ashes and across the windswept courtyard where they had killed the High Dragon in the crisp dusk air to the altar room where they had faced Kolgrim and the others. Myranda spent much of this time in a somber silence, clutching the small silver amulet tightly in her hand, even after she slipped the cord over her head. It was in this room, after clearing out the bodies, that they decided to make camp, where they could still see sunlight and at least somewhat judge the time. Alistair and Leliana returned through the cave system, coming back a half-hour later with two goats and a kid and a skin of milk, which Leliana set to making into a creamy sauce with a few vegetables she'd managed to save as the three animals roasted.

Myranda had disappeared. When Alistair asked a long while later, Wynne simply pointed to the makeshift lean-to that Myranda had somehow managed to make out of their tent. He frowned and walked over, noticing how Baby started to walk out, spotted him, and turned to go back inside, as if he was just coming out to fetch him. "Myranda?" he called softly.

"Come in, Alistair."

He ducked inside to see her sitting on their bedroll, still looking at the amulet she'd received in the Gauntlet. The cord was no longer around her neck, but hung down over her hand.

"Dinner's ready."

"Thank you, but I'm not really hungry."

"Are you all right?" he asked, sitting next to her on the pallet.

"I... I don't know." She stared down at the amulet a moment longer before closing her hand around it. "I've been thinking about my father. And what the Guardian said... that I... I abandoned my parents," she finished in a whisper. Her lower lip quivered and she squeezed her eyes closed, lowering her head against her grief.

"Myranda..."

The dam broke. The sound of her name spoken with such love and concern released the floodgates, and she was powerless to stem the storm. A loud sob tore from her throat as all of her grief and despair and guilt poured from her.

Alistair pulled her gently into his lap, holding her against his chest as she wept. Her body shuddered violently as her sobs raked through her. He said nothing, simply held her wrapped in his arms and in his love, allowing her to release the grief she had carried since before they had met. Her grief and sorrow were like a living thing, eating at her from the inside, consuming her heart and soul.

"I _did_ abandon them," she cried. "I ran to save my own neck when I should have stayed and defended them. I should have insisted Mother take Father and escape with Duncan while I stayed to guard the entrance. I should have died protecting them." She took a breath before the agony of her guilt washed completely over her. "I was a terrible daughter, worthless to them when they needed me most. _I_ killed them... I let them convince me to leave them behind."

"You are not a terrible daughter," Alistair said softly, rubbing her back gently. "How could you think that? Hush, love. Shh... shh..." He looked at Baby when the mabari whined worriedly several long moments later, reaching over to pat him reassuringly. "It's all right, boy," he said to the dog. "Look, you've made Baby upset."

She sniffled as she looked over at the mabari and reached over to pet him, scratching him behind the ear as he licked her arm before she clutched Alistair's shirt again. The tears continued to fall, and she buried her head against his neck.

"Myranda," he murmured as she started to quiet. "Myranda, my love, you are far too hard on yourself."

Another sob tore from her chest at his words and the storm resumed with all its original fervor.

"You didn't kill them. There's no way you could've known what would happen. If you had stayed, you'd be dead, and I don't think that would have made your parents any happier." He rubbed her back in slow circles, rocking her gently back and forth. "Maybe... maybe the Maker wanted you to survive. He allowed you to escape from Highever castle and you survived the Joining. And you weren't in the battle at Ostagar. I don't know... maybe you were supposed to survive. Maybe you're the one who's supposed to kill the archdemon."

Myranda shook her head. "I can't."

"You can. If anyone can, you can. You are the bravest person I've ever met."

"I'm not. I'm not brave. I'm afraid of this Blight and of the archdemon. And I'm terrified of losing you. Just the thought of it..." She shuddered. "I can't do this anymore, Alistair. I _can't_."

"Yes you can. I believe in you." He tilted her chin up and looked down at her tear-stained face. "Because you would never willingly abandon those you love. You would die to protect the people closest to you. And we would die to protect you."

She closed her eyes and pulled her face out of his gentle grasp, leaning her head against him again with a whimpering sob. She wept softly as he again started to rock her comfortingly, slowly letting go of her grief. He was her rock in the middle of the violent storm of her emotions, and she clung to him almost desperately as she rode it out. She cried until she was sure there were no more tears left in her and even then she continued to hold him, closing her eyes as they burned from crying. She felt him shift slightly before he kissed her gently on the forehead.

"You need to rest. It's been a long day."

Her hand clutched his sleeve tightly. "Don't leave me," she whispered, opening her eyes. "Please. I... I don't want to be alone. Not tonight."

"Of course. Let me go talk to Leliana."

"You'll come back?"

"I promise," he said as he moved her back onto the pallet. He gestured at Baby, who padded over beside his mistress and lay next to her. "I'll be right back," he murmured, taking Myranda's hand and squeezing her fingers reassuringly before ducking out of the tent. He looked around before spotting the bard kneeling by the fire and walking over to her. "Leliana..."

"Go back to her," Leliana said, standing and handing him two bowls of stew. "And make sure she eats."

Alistair took the bowls and smiled a little. "Thanks."

The redhead nodded and waved him away. "Go on."

Myranda looked up immediately when he re-entered their makeshift tent, despairing at the sight of the bowl in his hands. She didn't feel like eating, and though she took the bowl, she mostly stirred around the contents inside. She did eat when he gently threatened her, though she did so without pleasure. After he made sure she had emptied her bowl, he took it from her and put the two bowls aside before pulling her back into his lap to hold her.

She lay her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat and soft, rhythmic breathing. The sound was so comforting, coupled with the feel of his hand rubbing her back slowly. She felt more tears stinging her eyes and fought them back. Instead, what the Guardian had asked him came back to her, along with his disheartening answer.

"Do you really still wish that you had died and Duncan had lived?"

Alistair sighed heavily "There... are times I wish that, yes." He closed his eyes. "I should have been the one to die at Ostagar. Not him. I... can't help thinking that everything would be better if he had lived and not me."

Myranda tightened her arms around him. How could he still think that? Didn't he know what he meant to her… what he'd given her? "Not everything," she whispered.

"Hmm?"

"I'm glad we were sent on that pointless mission," she said. "That you were the one to survive. I..." she swallowed, daring herself to say the words aloud. "I can't imagine what my life would have been like without you."

"You would be the same wonderful person you are now."

"I would be cold and unfeeling, driven by duty but dead inside. I'd be more like Morrigan than the woman herself." She lifted her eyes to look at him. "My love," she murmured. "You gave me back my soul. _You_. Not Duncan. You reminded me what it was like to be alive. To laugh. To _smile_. I didn't think I'd ever smile again after my parents were killed." She leaned her head against his shoulder, nuzzling his neck. "You stood by me, reminded me that I wasn't alone. You confided in me with something you had never told anyone else. But more than that, you trusted me with your heart. You gave me your love, and that is a gift I cherish above all else." She closed her eyes. "I love you so much," she whispered. "Where would I be without you?"

He hugged her tightly against him. What would he have done if not for her? "Do you remember asking me if I believed I was just some... nobody who was too lucky to die with the rest of the Grey Wardens?"

"Yes."

"I don't believe it," he murmured. "Not anymore. What I really think is that I was lucky enough to survive with you." He leaned his cheek against the top of her head. "I love you, Myranda... more than anything else in this world."

"I love you," she whispered. "So much."

They sat still and quiet for several long moments, Myranda listening to him breathe. She felt herself slowly relaxing as his fingers traced one of her coiled braids, feeling him pull at the pin that held the end in place before he gently unwound it to fall down her back. He then moved to the other, repeating the slow, methodical movements of tracing the braid to the end, removing the pin and uncoiling the long plait. He placed the pins aside—she didn't know or care where at the moment—before returning his hand to her hair, his fingers gently sliding down the interwoven strands of one of the braids. A small shudder ran through her body and his fingers paused, as if waiting for permission to continue. She took a deep breath before snuggling closer to him, nodding her head slightly.

His fingers continued down the plait, undoing the tie before retracing their path back up, untwisting the braid and loosing her hair. He repeated the motions on the other braid until the entirety of the blonde mass was free from its constraints. She lifted her head then to look at him, closing her eyes as she kissed him softly.

Alistair was a little surprised, but returned the soft kiss immediately. She deepened the kiss and he let her, his fingers diving through the golden sea of her hair. A small gasp escaped him when she suddenly slipped her hands beneath his shirt, teasing his skin and caressing every place that she knew made his brain shut down. He closed his eyes, his arms tightening around her. "Myranda..."

"Would you make love to me?" she whispered, trailing a line of fiery kisses along his neck as she pulled on the hem of his shirt to remove it. "Please?"

He caught her wrists with a sigh and shook his head. "No... not tonight." He opened his eyes again and watched her green eyes lift to stare at him. "You'd use it as an escape. You don't really want to... you just want to try and forget what happened today."

She sighed. "Yes," she said softly. "You're right. I don't really want to."

He smiled and gently laid her down on the bedroll before stretching out next to her, still cradling her against him. She suddenly seemed so small and fragile. She started to tremble again and he rubbed her back, murmuring soft words of comfort. "You need to let go, my dear," he murmured. "This is tearing you apart. You're suffering from it, and I hate to watch you suffer."

"I just miss him so much..."

"I know." He held her gently, closing his eyes. "It's all right. You can miss him. You just can't let it hold you back. Letting go isn't the same as forgetting."

"Have you let go of Duncan?" she whispered, knowing the answer already.

"I'm... trying to." He held her closer. "I still feel... guilty... for not being on the field with him."

"But then you'd be dead. And I... I don't know that I'd be here. I need you... I suppose I needed you when we met, because you helped... you made me human again."

"And if you had stayed to defend your father you would be dead, and where would I be? I don't know that I could have done this—any of this—by myself."

"I'm sure you'd do fine." She sighed heavily. "At least I've made him proud."

"Of _course_ you have. You're his daughter, and you're wonderful." He lowered his head to rest his forehead against hers. "I'm proud of you, too, if that counts for anything."

"You know it does," she said, hugging him tightly. "It's nice to know that he approves... would have approved of you," she murmured, closing her eyes. "I wish you could have met him before he... when he was alive. My father _and_ my mother. And Fergus, too."

"Will you tell me?"

"Hmm?"

"Your family... will you tell me about them?"

She considered refusing, saying that she didn't think she could or that she was too tired, but instead found the words tumbling from her lips. She told him everything, from how her mother had taught her basic swordsmanship and archery as a child, to the pranks she and Fergus used to pull on the long-suffering Nan. He laughed softly as she described how she'd convinced the young knights to let her train with them when she was thirteen. She described Oriana, and gave great details of Fergus's wedding to the Antivan woman. She told him about Oren, about the day he had been born, and how proud she'd been to become an aunt. And she told him all about Roland—about their friendship and her eventual interest in him, their long walks around the parapets at night, their secret romance and its eventual discovery at the start of Wintersend and its forced dissolution by her father with Roland's strict and rigid compliance. She even told him her deepest, darkest secret: about the child—Rory's child—that she'd carried for ten weeks before losing it just before Summerday. It was the only thing she'd never told anyone, though her mother had known and had forbidden her to speak of it. Not even Rory had known of the child he had fathered and lost.

She told him all about the day Duncan had arrived at the castle, from meeting him in the hall, to retrieving Baby from the larder only to find a dozen large Korcari rats inside, to her last conversations with her parents, Fergus, Oriana, and Oren. She fought through the narration of the attack that fateful night, the tears again falling from her eyes as she told him about Rory's last words to her, about finding her beloved father mortally wounded in the larder, and her mother sending her and Baby through the servants' exit with Duncan without her. It was late into the night when she finished, taking her tale up to the bridge leading into Ostagar and Duncan telling her to seek him out. "You know the rest," she said finally.

"Maker's breath," Alistair breathed. "And you've been carrying that with you all this time?"

Myranda closed her eyes and nodded.

He said nothing in response, simply pulled her to him in a tight hug.

"It's why I'm so afraid," she whispered. "And why I was so afraid to fall in love with you. Everyone I've ever loved or cared about has been taken from me, and if I were to ever lose you..."

"Shhh," he hushed her. He petted her hair gently, running his fingers through the luxuriously soft golden waves. "You aren't going to lose me."

"I almost did today." She curled closer to him. "It would kill me to lose you."

"You're not going to lose me... not any time soon." She started to say something else and he cut her off. "Hush, love. Get some sleep now... you've had a hard day."

She sighed and nodded. "I love you, Alistair," she whispered. "Very much."

"I love you, too." He kissed her forehead softly. "Now get some sleep."

 

 

Myranda woke to a bitterly cold dawn, still feeling exhausted. She sighed heavily and the arm around her waist tightened slightly, pulling her back against a warm body. It made her smile, and she noticed for the first time how light her heart felt. "My love," she murmured.

"Good morning," Alistair said, kissing her shoulder softly. "How are you feeling?"

"Tired," she admitted. "Completely and utterly exhausted."

"That's understandable."

"But also warm," she went on. "Warm and content. And at peace."

"So better, then."

"Yes. I don't know that I'll be happy until Rendon Howe has paid for his crimes, but I feel better this morning than I have for the past several months."

He kissed her shoulder again. "Good."

"And you, my darling? How are you feeling?"

"What can I say? I'm in the bed of a beautiful woman. Life is good."

Myranda laughed softly. "And you have yet to be struck by lightning."

"Just proves that the Chantry doesn't know anything."

"Or that the Maker is more understanding than the Chantry gives Him credit. He was married, after all."

"I'm luckier than He is, though."

Myranda rolled over and looked at him. "Oh? Why?"

"He had to watch His wife—His love—die." He smiled gently at her, brushing a tendril of hair from her face before trailing his fingertips lightly over her cheek. "I didn't."

"She was brought to the Maker's side after She was burned." She lowered her eyes. "And I wouldn't say I'm Her equal by any means."

"You're probably more beautiful than She was, anyway."

Myranda grinned and poked him. "The Maker will surely strike you down for your blasphemy," she scolded gently.

He laughed. "Don't you ever wonder if those statues are an accurate likeness? Maybe She was ugly. Maybe She had buck teeth. How would we know?"

She giggled at that. "Now you _will_ be struck by lightning."

"At least I'll die happy."

She smiled up at him. "I love you," she whispered. "You know that."

"And you know how much I love you."

"Yes," she said, frowning suddenly. "Though I don't know why."

He blinked in surprise. "What do you mean by that?"

"I'm not a good person, Alistair."

"You are. In your heart you are."

Myranda shook her head. "How can you say that?" she asked. "I'm bloodthirsty. My one desire is to kill someone, and I know that I'll take great pleasure in the killing. How does that make me a good person?"

Alistair smiled a little at her. "Evil doesn't worry about being good," he said, watching as she blinked in surprise. "The fact that you want to kill Arl Howe doesn't make you a terrible person. The very fact that you worry about it disproves it." He ran his fingers idly back through her hair. "And someone who wasn't a good person wouldn't have gone out of her way to save Arl Eamon's family."

She smiled. "Thank you," she whispered.

He returned the smile and kissed her softly. "There was a woman I knew once," he murmured after he pulled away, "the most beautiful woman I've ever known." He ran his fingers idly back through her hair. "She had a wealth of gold... great cascades of it. And no matter how much coin she spent, the gold never disappeared. But aside from that, she also had the two brightest and most beautiful emeralds in Thedas. One look and they could captivate you... make you forget about everything." He stared at her for a few moments, running his fingertips lightly over her cheek. "Any man would happily die for those emeralds," he whispered.

Myranda blushed and looked away.

"She was a member of one of the most renowned and respected orders in Thedas, and the daughter of one of the oldest and most prestigious families in Ferelden. She was a woman suited to be the bride of kings..." his voice trailed off suddenly and he frowned before continuing. "And yet, for all her wealth and power and prestige, for some reason, she fell in love with me."

"A prince in your own right," she reminded him, "in blood and in spirit. And no less worthy of her love than all the kings of this world."

"She deserves a king," he murmured. "Not a bastard prince. But somehow I managed to be lucky enough for her to love me. This wise, brave, beautiful woman who's as pure as mountain snow."

She looked at him. "Who is this other woman you love?" she demanded with a slight grin. "I'm quite certain now that you're not talking about me."

"Of course I am!"

"Oh, darling," she said with a small laugh, "if you could see inside my mind you would know that I am only as pure as a Denerim gutter." She leaned up to kiss him softly. "I was the one who corrupted you, remember?"

"Your soul, then," he said with a grin, "if not your mind."

"Or my body." She shook her head a little. "Terrible of me, tainting your pure, virginal innocence and destroying your chastity."

"Have I thanked you for that yet?" he asked teasingly, kissing her neck. "Because if I haven't, I need to."

"You may have, but I've forgotten." She smiled. "You may have to thank me again... just to be sure."

"Well, I'll... just have to arrange that, then, won't I?"

"Mmm hmm." She kissed him softly. "But that woman you love," she murmured, "for all the gold and status and power she has, you possess her greatest treasure."

"And which one is that?"

She took his hand and laid it on her chest over her heart. "This one." She watched the purely affectionate smile cross his lips before he leaned down to kiss her softly and gently, a kiss she gladly returned. She slowly deepened the kiss, running her tongue along his lower lip and into his mouth before sliding his hand down from her heart between her breasts and down her stomach, moaning softly as she guided it into her leggings and between her legs. "But you have this one, too," she whispered breathlessly.

"It's not the reason I love you, you know," he murmured huskily.

"I know." She rocked her hips gently. "But it is fun... and you seem to enjoy it, too."

"Did it sound like I was complaining?" he asked, a grin in his voice as he bent his head to kiss her neck again. "Because that's not what I meant... at all."

Myranda gasped softly as his fingers curled up into her. "Alistair?" she breathed.

"Hm?"

She looked up at him, her eyes sparkling even in the dimness of the cavern room. "Would you make love to me? Please?"

This time he did not refuse.

 

 

They ate a small breakfast, which Myranda strangely was unable to keep down. She comforted Alistair as best she could, reminding him that she had spent most of the night crying because of the severe emotional shock the day before—as had also been true two months before when she'd been ill.

By the next day, despite another morning delay because of Myranda's mysterious illness, they found themselves back in the entry hall of the main temple where they'd left Brother Genitivi. The brother himself was hobbling back and forth between two of the statues, and looked up at their approach.

"Welcome back!" he called. "You were gone for quite some time." He limped over to them. "Well?" he asked, his eyes shining, "Did you find it?"

"Yes," Myranda said. "We found it."

Genitivi looked at her in awe. "What... what was it like?" he breathed. "Coming to the Urn, I mean?"

The blonde woman reached up and touched the pouch she wore around her neck. "Nothing has touched me quite so deeply," she murmured.

"You are a very fortunate person," Genitivi said. His sapphire eyes suddenly lit up. "And so am I!"

Myranda blinked, coming back to the present.

"Perhaps my research will not seem so much like blasphemy to the Chantry now," the brother said, almost viciously. He then started to pace back and forth in front of them, as best he could with his limp. "We must organize an expedition," he said. "There is so much history here. It must be studied. And... and pilgrims should be allowed to come to the Urn!"

Myranda glanced at her companions. "I'm not sure that's wise," she said. "Many will try to exploit this discovery."

Genitivi turned to look at her as if she were mad. Strange how accustomed she had become to it. "But the Urn belongs to all the faithful!" he retorted. "How can you deny this to them? No... we must share it!"

"I agree," Leliana said. "We cannot withhold this from others. It is not our place."

Genitivi nodded. "I will spread this good news, or die trying."

"You have noble intentions, Brother Genitivi," Wynne said soothingly, "but can you say the same of your brethren in the Chantry?"

"It's no use, Wynne," Myranda said, stopping the argument before it got any worse. "He wants to spread the word, and so be it." Her emerald eyes bored into his. "But if something bad comes of this, it's on your head," she warned.

"I must return home," Genitivi said, apparently disregarding the young woman's warning. "I have much to do." He turned then and gathered his things quickly before hobbling out of the temple, muttering to himself.

"So everyone comes by and takes some ashes from the Urn?" Alistair said when the brother was out of earshot. "I hope that Urn is self-replenishing."

"Don't worry," Myranda muttered. "The few who get past the struggle with their own shadow won't get past the bridge puzzle."


	29. Redcliffe's Relief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party returns to Redcliffe, Arl Eamon is saved from the brink of death and a terrible suggestion is made. ...And the Grey Wardens realize there is a consequence to their love.

**Chapter 29: Redcliffe's Relief**

 

The group travelled back to the village of Haven, and Myranda found herself sick each of the first three mornings. She managed to keep it from everyone except Alistair, who worried more about her with each passing day. Even after she managed to keep down her morning meals, he still worried. He subsided when she promised to have Wynne examine her if she skipped her Flow the following week.

They returned to the village the week before First Day, finding it mostly deserted. They picked up the companions they had left behind—Myranda was slightly surprised to find Sten still there and alive—before starting on the road back out of the mountains.

They parted company with Brother Genitivi three days later as he prepared to follow the northern branch of the Imperial Highway toward Denerim, while the group was to turn their steps back south to Redcliffe.

"If you ever find yourself in Denerim, please visit me," Genitivi said to them. "I am not a rich man, but I have a small collection of interesting artifacts, and I do owe you a reward for coming to my rescue."

"Thank you, Brother," Myranda said. "Please be wary of the Blight as it spreads northward."

"I'll keep an eye out," he promised. "I hope to see you soon, my friend. May the Maker guide you on your way."

"Thank you... and you as well."

They waved the Brother off before turning their steps southeasterly.

 

 

_[Haring 28 – Evening]_

Three days after she was supposed to have her Moon Blood, Myranda approached Wynne. "Wynne?"

"Yes, Myranda?"

"Um, can I talk to you? Privately?"

"Of course, dear."

 

Alistair watched as the two women stepped out of camp. He was glad that Myranda was looking after herself, but he was worried. What if she was really ill? What if something was wrong? What would he do? He petted Baby absently as the mabari sat next to him and whined. "I'm sure she's fine," he said after a long time, trying to reassure himself as well as the dog. "I'm sure it's just stress, like she keeps saying."

Baby whined again.

Alistair sighed. "Yeah, I don't believe it, either." He looked over at the animal. "But if she's sick, Wynne can heal her."

The mabari barked in agreement.

"Wynne's a great healer. I'm sure she's seen it all before. And... and maybe she can give her something to help with the stress. I don't know if I'm doing much good."

Baby looked at him and cocked his head, whining in confusion.

"Do you think so?"

The mabari barked, smiling his doggie grin.

"Well I appreciate your confidence in the matter." He looked up when Myranda walked back into camp. "Time to find out," he muttered, standing and walking over to her. "Well?" he asked.

She looked at him before giving him a dazed smile. "Alistair."

"What did Wynne say?" he asked, nervous. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, darling. I'm fine." She hugged him. "Oh, yes... everything's _wonderful_."

He returned the hug, but for some reason didn't feel reassured. "So...?"

"Let me tell you later," she murmured.

"We promised no more secrets."

"Don't think of it as a secret," she said, looking back up at him, the dazed smile still on her lips. "Think of it as a surprise."

He frowned worriedly. "I don't like surprises."

"You were surprised when I told you I loved you," she said. "And when I asked you to join me in my tent. And when I told you I would never choose Zevran over you." She kissed him softly. "Don't worry, my love," she said. "I promise you, I'm perfectly well. I'll tell you all about it in a couple days."

 

 

_[First Day 9:31 Dragon: Wintermarch 1 – Dawn]_

Alistair awoke slowly to the feeling of soft kisses being trailed along his collarbone and slowly up his neck. He moaned softly, tightening his arm around his lover's waist as he breathed in her scent. "Good morning," he murmured.

"Good morning," Myranda replied before beginning to kiss along his jaw line. "Happy First Day."

"Mmm."

"I need to tell you why I've been sick."

His eyes snapped open at this. "Are you all right?"

She smiled a little, secretively. "Yes, Papa, I'm fine."

He stared at her for a few minutes before he realized what she'd called him. He was confused for a moment, then realized _why_ she must have said it. But... no. No, it wasn't possible for Grey Wardens... it _couldn't_ be...!! Could it? Was it really true? "Myranda...?"

Her smile just widened and she nodded.

Alistair felt he couldn't breathe. A father? He was going to be a father? He watched as she started to giggle and felt the breath leave him in a ragged laugh of disbelief. He was going to be a father! A _father_! "I don't... I can't..." He gave up trying to speak then and pulled her to him in a tight hug. "Andraste's mercy!"

Myranda laughed at his stunned speechlessness as she returned the embrace. He couldn't say it, but she saw how happy he was at the news. "Surprise!" she giggled.

"Maker's breath, I... I don't know what to say!"

"Then don't say anything," she said.

He kissed her then, with all the love and joy he felt in his soul. He pulled away several long moments later before shifting to lay his head gently on her stomach, pressing his ear against her skin.

Myranda looked down at him, amused. "It's too soon, my love," she told him. "You won't be able to hear anything."

He lifted his eyes to meet hers. "I can," he murmured.

A purely affectionate smile crossed her lips and she caressed his face.

"When?" he asked.

"I'd say the end of the summer... if all goes well."

 

 

_[Wintermarch 3 – Midday]_

Myranda chatted with Morrigan as they traveled away from the mountains, asking her opinion on faith and religion and listening to her dismissal of it all as a futile attempt to impose order on chaos.

Morrigan looked at the blonde woman, noticing how the smile on her lips never faded, even in the face of her most ruthless attacks on her religion. Even when she disagreed she smiled, and only laughed at the argument as folly... though she admitted that the witch was probably right. It was peculiar, considering the source of the smile. "Do you realize that you have been smiling for hours, now?"

Myranda ducked her head slightly in embarrassment. "Have I?"

Morrigan nodded once. "Since the last time you and that fool, Alistair, shot glances at each other, in fact."

The blonde woman's smile widened and she blushed a little. There was no use in denying it.

"He must be pleasant enough in bed, for surely I cannot imagine _anyone_ enduring his conversation."

Myranda laughed then, softly and low in her throat. "Oh, you have _no_ idea," she said with a mischievous grin.

Morrigan smirked at her. "I see." She chuckled then, the sound surprising Myranda a little, though it wasn't unpleasant. "Glad to hear it, then." She regained her composure then. "'Tis a bit sickening to watch you two, but I imagine it at least takes your mind from our... situation. Have it your way."

"You would not deny me a little pleasure in these dark, uncertain times, would you?"

"I suppose not, though why you would willingly choose Alistair as a companion I cannot imagine."

Myranda grinned. "Is it not better to train a dog fresh as a pup than to try and re-teach an older, experienced one?"

Morrigan laughed softly. "So! 'Twas in the training you found your pleasure, was it?"

If Myranda didn't know better, she'd be certain the young witch was teasing her. "Perhaps. I told him that, like most things, it would take practice." She grinned. "Lots and _lots_ of practice."

"And, being a man, he did not object."

"Oh, no. He quite readily agreed with me." A girlish giggle escaped her before she regained herself. "I'm sorry. I know you must find the topic tedious."

"It has not been so long since I laid with a man that I have forgotten the pleasure of the experience." Her golden eyes regarded the Grey Warden then. "I will admit, though, that the euphoria of the experience never lingered as it appears to do for you."

"Such is the beauty and the advantage of being wholly and completely in love." To her surprise, Morrigan frowned at this.

"I see," she said softly.

"Morrigan? Is something wrong?"

"Hm? No. Certainly not." She suddenly looked annoyed. "Come, there is much more we could be doing other than engaging in this mindless chatter, yes?"

 

 

_[Wintermarch 7 – Evening]_

"So, Zevran," Alistair began slowly. "The stories we hear down here about the Crows... they're not true, are they? They all sound a little far-fetched."

The elf looked at him curiously. "I cannot say," he replied. "What have you heard? In Antiva, we hear that Fereldan men cannot sleep without a dog in their bed. Is that true?"

Alistair blinked. "A dog? No, of course not. We value our dogs, it's part of our history."

"Oh." Zevran shrugged, then smirked suddenly. "Perhaps it was simply a reference to your Fereldan women, then?"

Alistair laughed at that. "Well, now that you mention it..."

"But those stories you heard?"  Zevran's smirk graduated to a grin. "All true."

"Really. Even the ones that talk about how you all... you know... get paid to..."

The elf's grin widened. " _Especially_ those ones."

Alistair stared at him in surprise. "Wow. I am totally in the wrong order." He mused over this for a while before speaking again. "As a Crow, you were an assassin in Antiva, right? Professionally?"

"Technically speaking, I still am," Zevran replied. "Somewhat between jobs, as it turns out."

"So how much did you charge to... you know... kill someone? Was it very expensive? Did it depend on who they were?"

Zevran chuckled darkly. "Such curiosity! Are you thinking of having someone murdered, my friend Alistair? Or are you truly considering a career change?"

Alistair shook his head. "No, neither. It just seems odd to me that you could make a living doing that. Or that you would need an entire guild just to handle so many... jobs."

"Ahhh," the elf said, nodding sagely. "Assassination in Antiva is a tradition," he explained. "It is more efficient than an election, as we say. 'Politics and death go together like kisses and love-making.'"

The Grey Warden nodded. He knew all too well how kisses and love-making went together... with Myranda, the former almost always led to the latter.

"It costs a great deal," Zevran went on, "depending on how experienced the Crow is... and how difficult the target is to kill." He looked over at the Grey Warden. "You? I would charge perhaps five thousand andris for you."

"Five thousand andris?" Alistair repeated in surprise. "Is that a lot?"

"Mmm, not really, no." He grinned. "Now your fellow Warden... I would charge five _hundred_ thousand for her."

"Why is she worth more than me?"

"Because I'm the pretty one," Myranda said, trotting up to them and grinning at her lover as she took his arm.

He smiled at her. "No denying that!"

She giggled. "I think we're going to stop and set camp soon," she told them. "The sun's going down and I think it's going to snow again."

Zevran shuddered. "I curse Verimensis in your country. It is somehow even worse than Cassus." He looked over at the Wardens. "You are indeed lucky, my friend, to have such a bed warmer."

"Thank you," they said together. Alistair looked at Myranda in confusion, but she only giggled. A glance at Zevran didn't clear up the misunderstanding, either. If anything, the Antivan's grin only grew more maniacal, which made him nervous. "Wait, who were you talking to?"

"Why, both of you, of course," he said. He gestured toward Myranda. "Take a long look at your fellow Warden, my friend Alistair. Right there we have an object worthy of worship, no?"

Alistair looked at Myranda and grinned. "I'll say."

"And Myranda, take your templar here: rugged good looks, quick wit, manly shoulders. Just getting him to hop borders is a challenge worthy of the great heroes."

Myranda grinned at the elf. "Don't count on it."

"What do you mean?" Alistair asked. "I'd happily hop borders, given the chance. I've never even been _close_ to leaving Ferelden!" His confusion grew as the two rogues laughed quietly. "What?"

The blonde shook her head as Zevran continued to chuckle darkly. "Oh, never mind, darling," she said, leaning over and kissing his cheek. "I'll explain later."

 

When she did explain, when they were bedding down for the night, Alistair was more than a little chagrined. A long, deep kiss quickly dispelled the embarrassment, however. They broke away slowly, just enough to be able to look at one another. Alistair smiled gently, running the backs of his fingers over her cheek before shifting to move down her body. He pushed up the hem of her shirt to just below her breasts before smoothing his hands over her abdomen, kissing her softly before leaning his head against her, his ear against her skin.

Myranda watched this act with a small smile. It had become a nightly ritual for him, almost worshiping the child that grew inside her every night and most mornings. She smoothed her hand through his hair, her own smile growing as he looked up at her with a smile of pure happiness and slight disbelief. She couldn't believe it herself: despite the difficulties the taint caused, they had managed to conceive a child. _Their_ child. Oh, the thought made her dizzy with joy.

Alistair kissed her abdomen—and the child that lay within—twice more before shifting back up to kiss his lover's lips. They kissed slowly, with no little passion but without overt eroticism. Of course he wanted to make love to her—he always wanted that—but sex wasn't an integral part of it. She started to pull away and he continued the kiss, grinning as she giggled into his mouth. He did pull away a few moments later, smiling down at her before moving to rest his head against her chest, listening to her heartbeat as he settled down for sleep.

"Alistair?"

"Hm?"

"You weren't calling me a dog, were you?"

"What? When?" He looked up at her in bewilderment before remembering the first part of his earlier conversation with Zevran. "No! No, of course not!"

"I would hope not." She smiled before kissing him softly. "I'm glad the two of you are getting along. That makes me happy."

"Well, I guess if I don't have to worry about him taking you from me..."

"Not at all. _You_ are the father of my child, after all."

He grinned, his hands sliding back down to her stomach. "I want to shout from the highest mountain that we're going to have a baby," he breathed.

She giggled. "Not yet. Let's keep it our little secret for now." She nuzzled him. "I'm so happy... I love you so much."

He kissed her again, gently, before running his thumb along her cheekbone. "I love you, too," he said, hugging her tightly. Then he added in a whisper, "Always."

Myranda smiled as she closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep.

 

 

_[Wintermarch 10 – After Midnight]_

Alistair woke with a start. The nightmares were returning... the archdemon was getting more persistent. That was bad. He shuddered and felt Myranda move next to him, tightening her arms around him.

"It's all right, my love," she murmured.

"Did I wake you?"

"No. I felt it, too."

He sighed softly, nuzzling her neck as she shifted again to hold him closer to her, her hand sliding up his back to massage his neck gently.

"It's coming," she said after a moment.

"I know."

"What do we do? We're running out of time."

He wished he had an answer for her, but he didn't.

"I'm so afraid."

"Don't be afraid." He shifted positions and leaned his forehead against hers, disturbed by the horror in her voice. "I won't let anything happen to you. I'd die to protect you."

"That's what I'm afraid of," she whispered. "I... I don't know what I'd do if you were lost to me. What would I do without you?" She tightened her arms a little. "What would _we_ do without you?"

A ridiculously happy smile crossed his lips as he ran his hands down to her abdomen. "You're not going to be without me," he murmured. "Neither of you. Not if I have anything to say about it."

She smiled at him before moving to kiss him softly and deeply. "I love you," she whispered when they pulled away several moments later. "Go back to sleep now. Just remember, soon Redcliffe's worries will be over."

 

 

_[Wintermarch 12]_

Teagan raced down the front steps of the castle as they walked through the gate shortly after dawn. He had apparently been pulled away in the middle of getting dressed, the buttons of his shirt improperly done up and the tail flying loose behind him. He was apparently mindless of the cold, despite the fact he had forgotten a cloak. "You return," he said as he approached. He stopped halfway through the action of hugging Myranda, a move she finished for him. He savored the feel of her for the second that he held her tightly against him before pulling away to look at her and Alistair.

"Sorry it took so long," Alistair said as the bann took his hand and shook it.

"Might you have news?"

Myranda looked up at the castle when another figure appeared in the doorway. This time it was Isolde, even from this distance looking grey and exhausted. Her shoulders slumped with an air of hopelessness and despair, and she made no move to approach the group. Her heart went out to the woman. "What is Arl Eamon's condition?" she asked, turning back to Teagan.

Teagan's face fell. "Unchanged, I'm afraid," he said. "We've tried more magical healing, but nothing works. As time passes, I become more and more convinced the Urn might be our only hope."

"Then you're in luck." Myranda reached up and held out the small pouch she carried around her neck. "I found the Urn," she said.

Teagan blinked in surprise. "You have?" His face lit up. "Wonderful! Let us go at once to Eamon's side and see if the Urn's healing powers live up to their reputation!"

 

Myranda left their companions to mill about the castle while she and Alistair alone followed Teagan and Isolde up to the arl's bedchamber. The Ashes were mixed in a goblet of wine and carefully given to the comatose arl, and the two Grey Wardens stood back as they watched and waited. She lifted Alistair's hand to her lips when he wrapped his fingers tightly around hers, kissing his fingers before patting his hand reassuringly.

The minutes felt like hours, but finally Eamon's eyelids fluttered slowly open. He looked around at each of them without recognition for a few moments before looking around at the room. "Wh-where am I?" he asked, his voice cracking slightly.

Myranda moved quickly to wrap her arm around Alistair's waist as he wavered. She wouldn't be able to hold him if he fainted, but at least the fall would be lessened.

"Be calm, Brother," Teagan said soothingly. "You have been deathly ill for a very long time. Do you remember nothing?"

The arl looked at him, blinking slowly. "Teagan? What are you doing here? Where is Isolde?"

"I am here, my husband," Isolde murmured, kneeling on the floor by the bed and taking Eamon's hand.

"And Connor?" he asked her. "Where is my boy? Where is our son?"

The arlessa frowned. "He lives, though..." her voice trailed off for a moment before she found her voice again. "Though many others are dead. There is much to tell you, husband."

"Dead?" Eamon repeated. "Then... it was not a dream?" His eyes seemed to light on the two Grey Wardens then and he blinked in surprise. "Alistair? Maker's breath, is that you?"

Alistair smiled a little. "Yes, my lord," he said softly, taking a few steps forward.

"I did not expect to see... what are you doing here?"

"Much has happened since you fell ill, Brother," Teagan said. "Some of it will not be... easy for you to hear," he finished with a frown.

"Then tell me," Eamon said, struggling to sit up. "I wish to hear all of it."

"Then allow me to begin," Myranda said, stepping forward. "For the tale begins on the field at Ostagar, four and a half months ago."

 

 

The tale took a long time in the telling, everyone filling in their parts. Isolde, surprisingly, did not skirt around the fact that their son was a mage, and readily admitted her guilt to hiring an apostate to tutor the boy... the same man responsible for poisoning him. At midday they had moved to the study, the arl wishing to stand and attempt to stretch his legs. He still spent much of his time in his desk chair. It was early evening by the time Myranda brought the tale to an end when she described how her band had parted ways with Brother Genitivi, the brother heading to Denerim and she and the others heading to Redcliffe.

When she finished, Eamon stood and walked carefully over to the window, looking out over the village. He said nothing for a long time, digesting the information they had given him. "This is most troubling," he said after many long minutes of silence. "There is much to be done, that is true. But I should first be thankful to those who have done so much." He turned to Myranda. "Lady Cousland, you have not only saved my life, but kept my family safe as well. I am in your debt. Will you permit me to offer you a reward for your service?"

"I need your help against the Blight," Myranda said. "That will do."

"I understand, but regardless of your motivations, I feel you are worthy of a reward. I would like to honor your efforts, nothing more."

Myranda inclined her head a little, graciously. "As you wish, then."

Eamon returned the nod. "Then allow me to declare you and those traveling with you champions of Redcliffe. You will always be a welcome guest within these halls."

Myranda looked up at Alistair and smiled.

"And for you, my lady, a shield of the same make as those that have been given to our finest knights."

"Thank you, my lord," Myranda said graciously.

"We..." Teagan stopped mid-sentence and looked at the arlessa. "Isolde, if you will excuse us?"

Isolde looked at her husband, who nodded, before standing regally and leaving the room, shutting the door firmly behind her.

"We should speak of Loghain, Brother," Teagan said. "There is no telling what he will do once he learns of your recovery."

The elder Guerrin sighed. "Loghain instigates a civil war even though the darkspawn are on our very doorstep." He shook his head then. "Long I have known him. He is a sensible man, one who never desired power."

"I was there when he announced he was taking control of the throne, Eamon," Teagan said furiously, rising from his chair. "He is mad with ambition, I tell you."

"Teagan," Myranda said soothingly, holding out her hand to him.

The bann looked at her and subsided.

"Mad indeed," Eamon agreed. "Mad enough to kill Cailan... to attempt to kill myself and destroy my lands." He turned from the window to look at them. "Whatever happened to him, Loghain must be stopped. What's more, we can scarce afford to fight this war to its bitter end."

"What are you proposing, then?" Myranda asked.

"We have no time to wage a campaign against him," the arl said. "Someone must surrender if Ferelden is to have any chance at fighting the darkspawn."

"But once everyone learns what he's done..."

"I will spread word of Loghain's treachery, both here and against the king. But it will be but a claim made without proof." He made his way back over to the desk and sat heavily. "Those claims will give Loghain's allies pause, but we must combine it with a challenge Loghain cannot ignore." He looked at Myranda... or rather over her shoulder to where Alistair stood by her chair. "We need someone with a stronger claim to the throne than Loghain's daughter, the queen. I would not propose such a thing if we had an alternative. But the unthinkable has occurred."

Myranda's eyes widened as the implications struck her. "You intend to put Alistair forward as king?" she murmured.

"Teagan and I have a claim through marriage," Eamon said, "but we would seem opportunists, no better than Loghain. Alistair's claim is by blood."

"And what about _me_?" Alistair exclaimed suddenly. "Does anyone care what _I_ want?"

"You have a responsibility, Alistair," the arl said with gentle firmness. "Without you, Loghain wins. I would have to support him, for the sake of Ferelden. Is that what you want?"

"I... b-but I..." He sighed heavily when he felt Myranda reach over and touch his arm gently. "No, my lord," he muttered, bowing his head.

Eamon glanced between the two Wardens. "I see only one way to proceed: I will call for a Landsmeet. There, Ferelden can decide who shall rule, one way or another. Then the business of fighting our true foe can begin." He looked back at Myranda. "What say you to that, my friend? I do not wish to proceed without your blessing."

" _My_ blessing?" Myranda repeated, surprised. "I'm flattered, my lord, but why would you need my blessing?"

"None of this would be possible without you. You led Alistair here, and you saved my life with the Urn of Sacred Ashes..." a small smile suddenly pulled at the corners of his lips "and I daresay you outrank me. It's your lead I follow." His face became serious again. "I am a credible enough figure in this nation to call the Landsmeet, but I hold no illusions that I could face Loghain without you. Surely you see that."

"Wouldn't it be easier to simply kill Loghain?"

"I'm not sure that would help our cause," Eamon said. "We would become the criminals, and our accusations would become excuses." He shrugged. "Furthermore, I'm not even certain where Loghain might be."

"He is most likely in Denerim," Teagan said.

"Or he could be out with the army," Myranda noted, "putting down insurrection in the Bannorn."

"If he's out with the army," Alistair said, "what's stopping him from just attacking Redcliffe?"

"Why do you think he had me poisoned?" Eamon countered. "He wanted me gone without having to confront me directly. If I call for a Landsmeet, refusing the compromise and attacking Redcliffe will only support our accusations." He shook his head. "I'm sure he'd rather I died from the poison. Had the demon not interfered, that's exactly what would have happened."

"It seems we have little choice," Myranda said. "A Landsmeet would be the most agreeable way to settle things."

"Very well, I will send out the word," Eamon said with a nod. "But before we proceed, I believe there is the matter of the mage... my son's tutor. He still lives, I understand."

"He does," Teagan said. "He is in the dungeon, Brother."

"Have him brought here, Teagan. I wish to see him."

"Go with him, Alistair," Myranda said. "Just in case."

Alistair nodded and followed the bann from the study.

"Now that we're alone, Lady Cousland," Eamon said when they'd gone, "may I have a word, please?"

"Certainly, my lord." She smiled a little as he shifted through the papers on his desk. "If you're looking for Alistair's mother's amulet," she said, "I've already taken it and given it back to him."

He looked at her and smiled a little. "Well that's one less thing I have to do."

"He was quite surprised that you kept it all this time. I wish we could stay... I think he'd like to talk with you—about that and other things. He's been quite worried about you."

The arl sighed. "I'm afraid there have been many crimes committed for which I cannot begin to repent." He looked at her. "I'm glad he has found a good woman who loves him."

A soft smile crossed Myranda's lips. "Thank you, my lord."

"You knew of his birthright?"

"He told me when we first arrived... before we knew what had happened here. And before you accuse me of such a thing," she went on, sitting forward in her chair, "I am no social climber. I loved him before I knew his birthright, and I continue to love him in spite of it. You know as well as any noble, including Loghain, that I was considered as wife for Cailan before Anora, and I refused. _I_ refused. Had I any designs on the throne, I would have acted on them then."

Eamon chuckled a little, not intimidated. "You sound like your father."

Myranda relaxed, sitting back in her chair. "Thank you."

"I believe you have done well by him—I do not question your motives or your love. The Couslands are not known for duplicity." He stared at her. "And I know you understand what my putting him forward for the throne means for you and your love."

She lowered her eyes. "We—Alistair and I—are Grey Wardens first, my lord," she said.

"He may not have that option. He is of the Theirin bloodline. You know this. As for you... that is your decision to make. But there will be pressure on him to marry and produce an heir."

Her hand twitched on the arm of the chair and it was all she could do not to cover her belly protectively. "I understand," she said. "And I appreciate your concern."

"I simply want you to be aware of the situation."

"I am aware. I know my duty, Arl Eamon, and I shall do what must be done." She leveled a stern look at him, though a smile pulled at her lips. "I am also aware that there are some selfish motivations behind your suggestion. With my knowledge of Fereldan politics, I could act as advisor in your stead."

Eamon chuckled. "He might enjoy the lessons more if they come from you."

The smirk on her lips widened to a secretive smile. "It wouldn't be the first set of lessons he's taken from me... aside from dancing lessons, of course."

The older man shared her knowing smile. "Of course." His face fell as the door opened, announcing the return of Teagan and Alistair with Jowan, who was accompanied by Ser Perth and two other knights. The mage's arms were tied against his body, and a metallic clinking indicated that his wrists were chained behind him. The arl stood and faced the apostate squarely as Alistair moved back to Myranda's chair to hover protectively over her. "Jowan. What you have done is not in question. You tried to assassinate me and set into motion a series of events that nearly destroyed everything I cherish. What have you to say in your own defense?"

"Nothing, my lord," Jowan said, bowing his head, "other than to say I am sorry. I expect no mercy for what I have done."

"I see," the arl said. He looked at Myranda. "Grey Warden, have you anything to say on Jowan's behalf?"

Myranda and Alistair exchanged a look before she turned back to the arl, not looking at the apostate. "No," she said calmly. "I have nothing to add."

"Then there is nothing more to say," Eamon said. "Jowan, I hereby sentence you to death. May the Maker show you the mercy we cannot."

"Thank you, my lord," Jowan said, bowing his head again before being led away by the knights.

"Now," Eamon said when the door closed behind them, "back to the matter of the Landsmeet. It will take some time to recall my forces and organize our allies. I would prefer to wait until that is done before calling the Landsmeet."

"That is wise," Myranda said. "If we are to resist, we must be organized."

"In the meantime, I suggest you pursue the remainder of the Grey Warden treaties. You mentioned you had one left?"

"For the dwarves, yes. I can't imagine what kind of trouble they're having."

"You foresee there being trouble in Orzammar?" Teagan asked.

"Everyone else has been having problems," Alistair said. "Why not the dwarves too?"

"Regardless, you know better than I that you must succeed," Eamon told them. "We will need all the allies we can get if we are to defeat the darkspawn horde."

Myranda stood and, crossing her arms across her chest, bowed her head. "As you say."

"It is late," Teagan said. "Will you stay on for the night? I'm sure I speak for my brother as well as for myself when I say we would be pleased to have you as guests."

She looked out the window to find the sun low on the horizon. "We would barely be on our way to Orzammar before we had to stop." She looked back at the arl. "We would be pleased to accept the hospitality of your hall, if you wish to offer it."

"Then guests you shall be," Eamon said with a smile. "Rest while you can. You shall leave with the dawn?"

"If I can convince myself to leave the bed. Oh, to have a real bed after months sleeping on the ground..." Myranda sighed. "I'm sure everyone else will appreciate the break as well. Thank you, my lord."

 

There was a celebration in Redcliffe that night, with music and dancing and enough food to feed an entire army around a large bonfire. Leliana shared some of her tales and ballads, while the village girls danced, including the Remigold. Myranda was invited to join in, but she declined—it had been years since she had danced the virgin's rite.

Alistair, however, was nowhere to be found. Myranda searched through the town, finally finding him perched on the ridge near the waterfall, looking sullenly down at the village and the celebration occurring there. She smiled a little. It was the same place she had gone for solace before their battle here, so many months ago. "You're not thinking of jumping, are you?" she asked when she was within earshot. "Ending it all?"

"Not yet." He looked over at her to find that she was dressed a gown of soft green with golden embroidery that sparkled in the moonlight and a gold cincher at her waist. Her hair had been partially loosened so that just the ends of the two long braids were pinned up, the loops descending to just below her shoulders. He smiled at her. "You look beautiful."

She returned his smile. "Aren't you going to come join the celebration?"

"I don't know," he said, looking down at the village again. "I don't really feel much like celebrating."

The smile faded from Myranda's face. She walked up and sat next to him, placing her hand on his wrist, causing him to look back over at her. "What's wrong, Alistair?"

"You heard what the arl said," he said. "He's going to make me king."

"He's going to put you forth as a contender," she corrected.

"It's the same thing," he said miserably. "I'm Maric's son, and if that becomes public knowledge, they'll force me into it."

"Do you think there'll be a way out of it?"

"I... I don't know." He sighed heavily. "I'm terrified that they'll make me king. I don't want it. I've never wanted it. I... I couldn't do it. And I certainly couldn't do it alone."

"You wouldn't have to be alone," she murmured.

"I guess that's true. I suppose they'd want me to marry Anora."

Myranda's brow dropped as a sudden, possessive rage swept through her. "No," she said viciously. "I won't stand for that."

Alistair looked over at her, surprised at the amount of venom in her voice. "Want to keep me to yourself, do you?" he teased gently.

The anger faded from the young woman's face and she smiled, ducking her head slightly in embarrassment. "I suppose." She looked over at him. "Don't forget, I'm the daughter of the teyrn of Highever. I could... if you wanted me to... I could become queen."

"Instead of me being king?"

She looked away. "No. Not after Eamon reveals your birthright." She paused, fidgeting as she came to grips with the possibility of what she was about to propose. "But, remember, my status is high enough that I... well... I could marry a king."

"Really?"

She nodded. She had been terrified of the idea once. But if they had no choice—if Alistair had to become king—would she be willing and able to rule with him? He couldn't do it alone, and she couldn't let him marry Anora; the very thought made hot, poisonous jealousy flood through her. "If you became king," she said softly, looking over at him, "then... if you wanted... I would be a suitable match to be queen."

"Well, I'll say this," Alistair said softly. "If I have to be king, I can think of no one else I'd rather have as my queen." He leaned toward her, lifting his hand to caress her face as she leaned forward to rest her forehead against his. "I can be a king if you're with me," he whispered. "You deserve a king."

"And yet I find myself wanting only you... just the way you are." She smiled adoringly at him. "I deserve nothing more than what you give. You are my friend, my confidant, my savior, my lover." She paused, reaching up to brush her fingertips along his jaw. "King or not, prince or commoner, you are my Brother Grey Warden," she murmured, "and I love you."

He smiled and leaned forward to kiss her softly, a kiss she returned instantly. The world ceased to be as they found themselves lost in each other. Their kiss slowed and deepened, tongues dueling and playing inside their mouths. Their arms wrapped around each other, drawing them deeper into the kiss as passion intensified. Myranda moaned as the kiss became more insistent, pulling gently and regretfully away.

"Come now," she said, "there's much to celebrate. Not the least of which is a proper bath and a real bed."

"With a soft mattress and a lovely feather pillow," Alistair sighed. "I hope I remember how to sleep in one of those."

"I doubt it will be difficult. Especially after certain... _other_... late night festivities."

He grinned mischievously back at her. "That makes me sleep better no matter where we are."

"My back will appreciate the mattress after the ground, though."

He kissed her softly and briefly. "Can we do that, though?" he asked, laying a hand lightly over her abdomen. "Even with...?"

"I think so. I don't think it will hurt anything. The damage, as they say, has been done." She smiled gently. "Not, of course, that I think of our little prince or princess as damage."

"I hope it's a princess," he breathed, his eyes sparkling with excitement. "A cute little girl."

"That you will spoil absolutely rotten," Myranda said with a giggle.

"Of course I will," he replied, grinning at her.

She grinned, pressing her body against his. "And there are other ways to bring pleasure, you know," she murmured, resting her hand on his thigh.

"True."

She smiled and stood, pulling him to his feet and down to the celebration. They danced and laughed and talked with Teagan and Murdock. At one point Alistair glanced over at Myranda, who was standing near a table on the other side of the fire, to find her staring pointedly at him. She had been eating something with a spoon but, having caught his attention, started to consume it more slowly. She licked her lips slowly before running her tongue around the edge and bottom of the spoon, flicking across the end of the bowl. She slid the spoon into her mouth before closing her lips around it and pulling the spoon slowly away. Then she smiled—almost innocently—and swallowed. Slowly. Meaningfully.

He shuddered. He couldn't help it. He also couldn't help where his mind wandered after watching her devour the food... thinking that she could and would devour _him_ in the same way. Someone called his name then and he turned, only to find no one there. When he looked back to where Myranda had been, she had vanished. He looked around, only just seeing her beyond the crowd on the path to the castle, a mischievous grin on her lips. On catching his eye, she turned and ran up the path. Alistair grinned and quickly followed.

They met up at the bridge, giggling like children as they raced across it and snuck inside and up to their rooms.


	30. The Road to Orzammar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Myranda and Alistair suffer some set-backs and the party arrives at Orzammar only to discover that they have their own problems.

**Chapter 30: The Road to Orzammar**

 

It was midmorning before the party got underway again, the Grey Wardens blaming their west-facing window for their not being awake earlier. Leliana, who had gone to fetch them an hour after dawn, knew better, and saw the smirk with which Myranda gave the excuse only because she was watching for it.

They bid their goodbyes to the grateful town and its arl and set off back toward the Frostbacks. Myranda tried to console herself and justify the continued stupidity of heading into the mountains in the middle of Wintermarch with the fact that they were going to be in the northern part of the range instead of the southern part. This was quickly shot down by the knowledge that the Frostbacks were mountains and would _always_ be cold. Even the mountains in Seheron would be cold this time of year... provided Seheron _had_ mountains.

Thinking about Seheron turned her thoughts toward the qunari that lingered in her party. He had said nothing to her since he had submitted to her authority when she had defeated him before they reached Haven. How quickly he had forgotten that the week before they had stumbled across the camp where he and the qunari who had been with him had been attacked by darkspawn. She had questioned the scavenger who had taken up residence, apparently selling the bits of armor and weaponry that he had stripped off the fallen qunari. Most of the goods, he had said, had been taken by the looter who had sold him the "acquisition rights" to the camp. This looter, who the scavenger had readily described as a red-haired human named Faryn, apparently had taken his ill-gotten goods to sell in the open market near Orzammar.

She thought about abandoning the quest—it would be like finding a needle in a haystack and she wasn't entirely sure anymore that she could trust Sten—but with a sigh decided that she had the lead and they were heading to Orzammar anyway... it would be foolish not to check. She only hoped the qunari appreciated all this effort... for his sake.

She was brought out of her reverie by an arm wrapping around her shoulders and looked over at Alistair with a smile.

"What's on your mind, my love?" he asked.

"The idiocy of climbing back into the mountains without waiting for spring," she said with a laugh.

He chuckled. "You're just a glutton for punishment, I suppose."

"And I know you'll keep me warm," she murmured, slipping her arm beneath his cloak and around his waist. She grinned as she let her hand stray over his hip and backside and he sucked in a sharp breath predictably.

"You're a bad girl."

"Yes... I know." She sighed. "Oh, I'm going to miss that lovely feather bed. That was the best sleep I've had in _ages_."

"Just the bed? Not the festivities?"

She looked at him. "Well, I'm still able to enjoy those, aren't I?"

Alistair laughed softly and leaned over to kiss her forehead. "What can I say? Your wish is my command."

 

 

_[Wintermarch 16 – Evening]_

"May I ask you something about the Circle?" Myranda asked Wynne after supper.

"I will answer to the best of my ability."

"What was life like in the tower?"

The older woman sighed. "I would be lying if I said it was easy. First, there were rules, and we were constantly watched to make sure we behaved appropriately. Then there was the study of magic. We had to cast the spells just so, control the effects completely..." She looked at Myranda. "A single word spoken incorrectly, a gesture out of sync, meant lack of focus, and we needed to have perfect focus, or we would be in danger."

"From demons."

Wynne nodded. "If we were careless they would enter our minds, and we would become abominations."

"That sounds like a hard life."

"It wasn't always difficult. There was joy in life at the Circle—the joys of fellowship, in knowing that you were not alone in your struggles. Without the Circle and my mentors, I would not have been where I am today. In spite of everything, I was happy in the tower, and I loved it."

Myranda smiled a little. "How did you become a mage?" she asked.

"People don't become mages," the older woman said, "they are _born_ mages. The talent just surfaces later. But you are asking how I ended up at the Circle?" She waited for Myranda's affirming nod before continuing. "I was brought there by the templars, just like many of the other apprentices. I don't remember very much. I was very young then."

"How did they know you were a mage?"

A small, mischievous smile crossed Wynne's face then. "I set a boy on fire," she said simply.

Myranda laughed at that. "I bet he deserved it too!"

"Oh, yes, he did," she agreed. "He was the eldest son of the woman who took me in. I don't think he ever liked me." Her smile faded and she suddenly looked puzzled, as if trying to recall something. "I didn't have a family… I never knew my real parents. My earliest memory was of hiding in a hay loft on a farm, trying to keep warm."

The smile faded from the blonde woman's face.

"I was found, and the farmer's wife was kind enough not to send me away. But they had children of their own and I was never made to feel welcome." She shook her head. "The eldest son was the worst. He was always calling me a 'stray', and throwing anything he could get his hands on at me." She shrugged. "And I don't know how it happened, but one day, he just found his hair on fire. Fortunately, there was a large trough nearby."

"Serves him right," Myranda said with a nod.

"He ran screaming, dripping head and all, to his mother. I was shut up in the barn, with a bowl of water and a crust of hard bread. The templars arrived several mornings later."

"That's horrible! What a terrible experience for a child."

"The barn kept me safe from the village children and the stones they would hurl at me," Wynne said. "I was afraid, yes, but it could have been much worse."

"Oh." Green eyes lowered. "I suppose so."

"I'll never forget the moment the templars led me into the entrance hall of the tower," the older woman said, her voice suddenly soft. "I had never seen anything so grand in my life. I stopped being afraid then. I knew I was... home."

"That's a wonderful story."

Wynne shrugged. "That's about all there is to my tale. That's how I came to the Circle."

"So, if the Circle is your home, why didn't you want to stay at the tower?"

"The Circle is in good hands. Irving knows what to do and he doesn't need me underfoot." She looked at the younger woman. "For now, I will support those that battle the darkspawn. I do feel I left things unfinished in Ostagar. There is so much left to do and I would be part of it."

Myranda smiled. "I am glad for your company. Thank you, Wynne."

"The Grey Wardens... all _two_ of you," she added with a smile, "need all the help you can get. And I will see this through to the bitter end. And after that..." her voice trailed off for a moment. "If I am still left standing, then I will return to the Circle."

"I'm sure you will be able to return afterward, if you so choose."

"Perhaps." The two women sat together in silence for several long moments before Wynne heard Myranda breathe a heavy sigh. She looked over to find the blonde staring at the ground sullenly. "What's on your mind?" she asked gently.

"Oh... it's nothing. I was just thinking about being a Grey Warden," Myranda said.

"Hmm... is something troubling you?"

Myranda tried to smirk, but the attempt failed. Like her mother, Wynne seemed to know just when and how to pry. "Everyone expects so much from me," she said.

"No one said it would be easy," Wynne said comfortingly. "You are one of the two surviving Grey Wardens in Ferelden. You defend all of us, and much rests on your shoulders." She put her hand gently on the younger woman's shoulder. "It may not mean much to you," she went on, "but thank you... for having the courage to continue to fight."

Myranda looked over at her and found a small smile crossing her lips. "I don't give up easily," she said.

"And that gives me hope," the mage replied, returning the smile. "That there are two of you and not one alone also helps."

"Yes. Having Alistair with me has helped a great deal." She sighed again. "I just... I don't know. I was only made a Warden a few hours before the battle. There's so much I _don't_ know, and sometimes I feel like I'm not serving the Order as well as I should."

Wynne nodded sagely. "Have you heard much about the Grey Wardens of old?"

"I know they soared through the skies on griffons."

"Griffons!" the mage exclaimed. "Alas, that seems to be the only thing people remember from the tales—the mighty flying mounts that bore the Grey Wardens into battle."

"Well, I wish I had a griffon," Myranda muttered, removing one of her boots and rubbing her aching foot.

"Unfortunately, they've all passed back into the Maker's hand, so that wish will have to go unfulfilled." She smiled a little. "It was said that watching the Wardens ride in on the white griffons was enough to rouse a weary heart, and put the dance back into the step of an old man."

Myranda lifted her eyes back to the other woman's face.

"The Grey Wardens were powerful—feared and respected—but they also inspired the common people. I remember a tale that was told to me, many years ago..."

"Go on," the blonde urged when the mage's voice trailed off to nothingness.

Wynne settled in for her story. "The Blight had ravaged the land for months," she began, "and the armies of the great kings had amassed for one last stand. As the sun burst through the clouds that boiled and churned in the dark sky above, it illuminated a vast seething horde of darkspawn, with the archdemon at its head."

Myranda couldn't suppress the cold chill that shot down her spine. It was like a scene out of her nightmares.

"And it was then—when courage seemed to fail and all lost to death and despair—that the Grey Wardens came. They arrived with the beating of wings like mighty war drums, and stood before the armies of men."

"And what happened then?" she asked, her voice slightly breathless.

"The Grey Wardens, grim and fearless, marched forth, ever between the men and the encroaching darkspawn. They formed a shield of their own bodies and held that line until the archdemon was dead and the last darkspawn lay trampled in the dirt." She smiled. The younger woman was staring at her like a wide-eyed child, taking in every word. "And then, demanding neither reward nor recognition for their sacrifice, the Grey Wardens departed. When the clouds finally rolled back and the sun shone full upon the blighted ground, the great kings knew that they had lost no men, and none of their blood had been spilled."

Vivid green eyes blinked in surprise. "When did this happen?" Myranda asked.

"This is a tale about no battle the Grey Wardens have fought, and yet about them all. They have always defended us from the darkspawn, taking losses so we do not have to. People may have forgotten over the centuries, but nothing has changed." She reached over and placed a hand over the Grey Warden's wrist. "This knowledge has been blessing and burden to Grey Wardens past, and now, it shall be your blessing, and your burden."

Myranda frowned and looked down at the ground. "As a Grey Warden, I'll never lead a normal life, will I?"

"No, you won't."

A heavy sigh escaped the young woman, her green eyes closing as she lowered her head. "I already knew the answer," she said. "I don't know why I asked."

"Because you were not looking for the answer," Wynne said, "but for someone to tell you that in spite of it, you'll be all right." She watched as the green eyes lifted to her again. "You wonder sometimes, don't you? If your life would be better if you weren't who you are."

Myranda looked back at the ground. "It's on my mind almost constantly."

Wynne smiled gently. "When I was a young woman in the tower," she began, "I came to the realization that the Circle would be my life, and I would know no other. Family, love, a simple life—these were things that others took for granted, that I would never have."

"Grass is always greener on the other side."

"It made me very moody. All I could think of was being trapped in that tower, with no way out and no end in sight. I started hating my life, and myself, and one night I found myself in the tower's chapel. I was seeking refuge, maybe answers..."

Myranda looked up at her then. "Did you find anything?"

"I must have looked tearful, or made some noise, because the revered mother came out and decided to speak to me. And because I had no one else to talk to, I talked to her. I must have said many silly things..." She shook her head ruefully. "But she told me that the Maker puts us all on our paths for a reason, and fighting our intended course is what causes so much anguish."

"And that made you feel better?" Myranda asked.

Wynne snorted slightly. "I thought the old biddy was full of rubbish," she said, causing the younger woman to smile. "I was fifteen, maybe sixteen, and I knew _everything_. So I left. But I always found my way back to that chapel," she continued thoughtfully, "and as the years passed, I began to see the truth of her words."

The blonde nodded. "Ah, the wisdom that comes with age."

"We were supposed to be polar opposites—mage and priest—but we weren't. There was much about us that was the same."

Myranda shrugged. "I hadn't thought about it, but I suppose priests have to give up a lot, too."

"The revered mother had lived in the Chantry all her life, as I had been in the tower for all of mine," Wynne said. "She taught me that you can find your family in the people around you, that you can love your work and find fulfillment in duty. And there is joy even in self-sacrifice; if you put others before yourself, then their well-being is yours, and their happiness is your happiness."

"Yes," she said, a gentle smile on her lips. "I know that joy... of someone else's happiness making you happy."

A slight smile crossed the mage's lips. "How are you, by the way?"

Myranda's smile became slightly secretive as she placed her hand over her abdomen. "I think everything's fine. I'm so happy... is there a way to tell what it's going to be?"

"Not this soon. In another two months, perhaps."

The Grey Warden nodded. "Very well. I'll ask you then." She stood. "Good night, Wynne."

"Good night, Myranda."

"Thank you."

Wynne looked up before smiling and nodding. "You're welcome, dear. Good night."

 

 

_[Wintermarch 20 – After Midnight]_

Alistair crept quietly into the tent after his shift of the watch, trying not to disturb Myranda. He tried to make as little noise as possible, but everything he did sounded so loud to his ears that he was amazed every minute she didn't wake up. He sneaked into the bedroll, trying not to let too much cold air under the blanket or to touch her overmuch—at least until he warmed up a little—but it was at that point that she stirred.

"Alistair?" she murmured sleepily.

"I'm sorry, my dear. I didn't mean to wake you."

"Mmm." She reached out and wrapped her arms around him, snuggling against him. "Oh, you're so cold."

"Sorry."

"Lie still." She snuggled closer. "Hold me and you'll warm up in no time."

He took a deep breath, releasing it as a contented sigh as he pulled her against him, closing his eyes as he breathed the soft scent of her hair. His eyes snapped open again when he felt her slipping her warm hands beneath the hem of his shirt and up his back. "I don't think undressing me is going to help," he said, a smile creeping up his lips.

"Bare skin is better," she murmured into his ear.

"Oh really?" he asked, rubbing her back slowly. "I'm starting to think you have ulterior motives, Lady Cousland." He felt her smile.

"Ulterior motives?" she asked with false innocence, moving her hands to slide up his chest. "Whatever do you mean, my prince?"

"You're trying to undress me to make love to me."

"Would I do that, your Highness?"

"Yes, my lady, I believe you would."

"My apologies," she murmured, starting to pull her hands from his shirt. "I will desist immediately."

"Did that sound like I was complaining?" he murmured before kissing her deeply, delighting in her soft moan of pleasure. He rubbed her back slowly as her hands wandered under his shirt and teased his skin before slipping his own hands around to rest on his lover's stomach, breaking the kiss gently. "Get some sleep, my love. For both of you."

Myranda smiled, leaning her forehead against his. "Good night, my darling."

"Good night."

 

 

_[Wintermarch 23 – Midnight]_

The archdemon flew through the green sky, landing on a large rock outcropping before roaring. Myranda hid, peaking out from behind another rock to keep an eye on the monster. Her blood froze in her veins as the huge dragon turned toward her, its white eyes not as sightless as she may have at first believed as they stared her down. It stretched its neck toward her and roared again, the sound deafeningly loud.

Myranda started awake, sitting up and staring straight ahead.

"You're awake!" Alistair sounded as shaken as she felt. "Did you... did you feel it, too?"

She lifted one hand to her forehead, forcing her slightly panting breath to slow. "Yes."

"It was like the archdemon saw us! _Saw us_! What does that mean?"

Her hand slid down as she lifted the other to completely cover her face, shaking her head.

"I think—" his voice cut off suddenly. "Wait... did you hear that?"

"Worse," she said, grabbing for her blades and tossing him his sword as the tingling in her blood grew stronger. "Darkspawn!" she shouted as she rushed out of the tent, not wanting anyone to be caught sleeping. "Darkspawn in the camp!"

No sooner was the warning lifted when eight shrieks descended on the camp. It was difficult to see them in the moonless night, and the fire's glow helped little, but the group managed to slay the attackers.

"What," Zevran said incredulously when the battle was over, "no trap? No ambush?" He snorted softly. "Some assassins!"

"Is everyone all right?" Myranda asked, circling the fire and doing a headcount. "Morrigan? Baby?"

Baby barked, trotting out of the gloom into the firelight as the young witch suddenly appeared from a large swarm of insects.

"What will they send next—darkspawn tax collectors?" she asked sarcastically.

"I guess it's like Duncan once said," Alistair said softly as he walked over to stand next to Myranda. "We can sense them, and they can sense us."

"Yes," the other Grey Warden said, "though it's fortunate for once that we can sense them."

"We'd best be more careful from now on. This camp isn't safe any longer."

Myranda leaned her head against his shoulder. "We're not safe anywhere, by the looks of things."

"How unnerving!" Leliana said, still shaking slightly with adrenaline.

"It will be much more difficult to sleep here now," Wynne agreed.

"I'd suggest we press on," Myranda said, "but it's too dark to see anything." She shook her head. "I didn't think we'd find any darkspawn this far from the Wilds."

"Fortifications should be built around the camp," Sten said.

"Yes," the Grey Warden agreed, sounding defeated as she sat heavily next to the fire. "Yes, we'll have to come up with something."

No one got any more sleep that night.

 

 

_[Wintermarch 25 – Evening]_

Myranda stood a short way outside the camp, her arms wrapped around her body as she stared up into the endless expanse of inky sky, Baby sitting next to her. How had the darkspawn spread this far north and west, and so quickly? How had they missed them? Surely they hadn't come all the way from the Wilds... there was no way they would have missed them. Maybe... maybe they were coming from the mountains. Still... that they were here was disturbing enough.

She heard familiar footsteps behind her and closed her eyes as Alistair wrapped her cloak around her shoulders.

"You'll catch cold if you stand around without your cloak, my love," he murmured. "That wouldn't be good for you or the baby."

She opened her eyes again. "I had another dream about the archdemon," she said.

"Yes, me too." He didn't sound at all happy about it. "And I got the feeling at the end, there, that it saw us. Was aware of us. Whatever you want to call it. It could have just been my imagination, I suppose." He looked at her. "What do you think?"

She nodded. "I think you're probably right."

"You know how some people want to be right all the time?" he asked. "Me, not so much." He frowned and looked up at the sky and the dark clouds rolling across the sliver of moon. "I guess one thing is certain, at least, isn't it? It's official. This is a Blight."

Myranda frowned and threaded her hand into the crook of his elbow before leaning her forehead against his shoulder. She closed her eyes again as his other arm wrapped around her. "Hold me," she whispered. "Don't ever let go."

"Never," he murmured.

"Why did we have to choose now to fall in love, with the whole world falling apart around us?" She curled closer. "And what kind of a world am I bringing our child into?"

"We'll be all right," Alistair said. "Remember? You told me that we'd make it through this Blight. And we will." He tightened his arm around her. "I don't want our princess to have to face this any more than you do."

She sighed heavily. "No. Our baby shouldn't have to see this... this darkness and corruption."

"And she won't," he assured her. "We'll stop the Blight... for her."

Myranda nodded. "I hope so," she whispered.

 

 

_[Wintermarch 29 – Near Midnight]_

Myranda sat up, startled awake by a sharp pain in her belly. No... oh no, no...

Alistair was instantly awake as well. "Myranda...?"

"Wynne!" she cried before wincing at the intense pain that shot through her, curling into herself.

Alistair stumbled out of the tent after a barking mabari, the cold shocking against the bare skin of his upper body. He was barely out before Wynne was rushing by him. "Is there something..." he started to ask before the mage ducked into the tent.

"Stay out for now," Wynne's voice called back before Myranda's voice cried out again.

Alistair looked at Baby, who whined up at him. "Go stay with her," he said. "One of us should be in there."

Baby barked and slipped into the tent as Myranda screamed again.

Alistair wrapped his arms around himself, cursing that he had rushed out of the tent without a shirt. But he'd been in such a hurry...

"Here."

Alistair looked over to find Zevran standing next to him, holding out a blanket.

"I doubt Myranda would approve of your catching pneumonia, my friend."

The Grey Warden managed a slight smile and took the blanket, wrapping it around his bare shoulders. "Thanks."

"Is everything all right?" a sleep-tousled Leliana asked, trotting over.

"I don't know," Alistair said, casting a worried glance back to the tent as another scream split the air, culminating in a sort of sob.

A tense half an hour later, Wynne stepped out of the tent shaking her head, the sleeves of her robe pushed up to her elbows and her hands covered in blood past her wrists.

"Wynne?" Alistair asked. "Is everything all right?"

She looked at him and frowned, pushing a lock of shoulder-length grey hair out of her eyes. "You knew about the child?" she asked without preamble.

Alistair ignored the shocked looks from Leliana and Zevran. "Yes. Is it all right? Is _she_ all right?"

"Myranda's fine. The child..." the mage's voice trailed off as she shook her head again. "I'm sorry."

Alistair stared at her, his heart breaking. Their princess... gone? Just like that? "Why?" he breathed after several long moments. "Why would this happen?"

Wynne sighed a little. "There are a great many reasons to lose a child... all of them reasonable explanations. But you must remember, it has been a very trying few weeks... the presence of the darkspawn in this part of Ferelden has weighed heavily on your minds."

He hung his head. "Yeah," he said, dejected.

"Oh, Alistair," Leliana said. "I... I'm so sorry! How terrible!"

He nodded a little before looking back at Wynne. "Can I see her?"

"She needs rest and time, but I think it would be good for her to know she has your support."

"Of course." The stench of blood hung heavily in the air as he entered the tent to find Myranda on her side, curled up into a ball. She didn't look at him when he came in, but Baby, who was sitting by her, whined worriedly at him. "Myranda?" he murmured.

The blonde woman curled up tighter, her body quaking. "I'm so sorry," she sobbed.

"Myranda," he said, laying next to her and rubbing her side gently. "Hush, my love, it's all right."

"You must hate me..."

"Of _course_ I don't!" he breathed, pulling her back against him. "How could I ever hate you? I _love_ you, Myranda."

"I lost our child!" she cried before breaking down into another fit of sobs.

"That wasn't your fault. I told you, it's difficult for Grey Wardens to have children."

"But I lost Rory's child too! And that was _before_ I became a Grey Warden!" She took a breath, the weight of her grief and despair crashing down on her. "The Maker must be punishing me for something. Maybe I'm not supposed to have a child... ever!"

"Now, Myranda, you know that's not true," Alistair murmured.

"But why else would I lose them?"

Baby whined and crawled on his belly closer to her, licking her hair.

Alistair sighed softly. "There are a lot of reasons why you could have lost the baby... none of them your fault." He rolled her over gently, tilting her face up to force her to look at him. "It isn't your fault," he repeated, firmly but gently. "And, no matter what, I will _always_ love you. I told you before that I wouldn't mind if we never had a child—as long as I have you, I'm happy."

Myranda pulled her chin from his grip before lowering her head again. "I'd probably be a terrible mother anyway."

"You'd be a _wonderful_ mother. Just look at how well you take care of our little party." The laugh this earned him was brief, but rewarding, though it quickly became obvious that she was holding back her sobs. "It's all right, Myranda," he whispered. "Let it go."

Myranda cried. She cried out her heartache and her grief and her bitter disappointment in herself. She held him tightly, burying her face against his chest as she sobbed. Their baby... how could she have lost their baby? What kind of sick joke was the Maker playing on her to tantalize her so? The mere thought of it only made her cry harder.

Alistair cradled her gently in his arms, lowering his head to hers and closing his eyes against the tears that welled there, grieving over the loss of their child.

 

 

_[Guardian 1]_

Myranda spent the two days following her miscarriage in a miserable despair, broken only by the small groups of bounty hunters they ran into, when the depression turned into rage as she took out her grief on her enemies.

At dawn on the morning they were to reach Orzammar, Zevran was up early, and ducked out of his tent to find Myranda standing alone on the edge of a small cliff, arms wrapped around her middle. He worried she might be contemplating jumping off of it, and the thought sent a shock of horrified panic through him. A curious reaction... and one he'd figure out later.

He walked over to her, making an effort to crunch noisily in the snow to alert her to his presence before he spoke. "I doubt your fellow Grey Warden would approve if you committed suicide, my dear."

Myranda sighed heavily. "I'm not going to jump," she said.

"But you were considering it."

She nodded. There wasn't any use denying it.

"Well, we cannot have that! You must at least allow me to make love to you first." He grinned at her, and caught the shadow of her smile only because he was watching for it. But still she smiled, and it made him glad. "That being said, I've a question, if I may."

"Go ahead."

"Well here is the thing: I swore an oath to serve you, yes? And I understand the quest you're on and this is all very fine and well. My question pertains to what you intend to do with me once this business is over with. As a point of curiosity," he added when she looked over at him.

She shrugged a little. "You could go, if you wanted."

"Could I?" he asked, lifting an eyebrow at her. "And what if I didn't wish to leave?"

Myranda managed a tiny smile. "I could always use a friend."

The answer and her smile warmed him like he was basking on a beach in Antiva. "Indeed?" He faked thoughtfulness—though he wasn't sure she could tell he was faking—before smiling gently at her. "I might even be glad to call myself such, come to think of it." She returned the smile, and it made him glad. "It is good to know what my options might be. But that is for another time," he said, putting an arm around her and steering her back toward the camp. "For now, we have much to do, yes?"

 

On their way up to the massive stone gate, they passed through what was to all appearances a small town made entirely of merchants. Myranda scanned them all carefully before spying the one she was searching for, sending Alistair ahead with the rest of the party.

The red-haired, suspicious-looking man looked up as she approached and smirked. "Step right up, friend, and have a look at the finest selection of almost-new armor and weaponry east of Orlais!"

"Faryn, I presume?"

The man looked surprised. "Oh, you've heard of me?" He looked around. 'What, um... what've you heard?" He seemed to decide then to defend himself against anything she might have heard. "And just so you know, some of my competitors have been trying to besmirch my sterling reputation."

Myranda sneered at him. "Your 'sterling reputation' as a pillager of corpses?" she asked viciously.

"'Pillage' is such a harsh word, friend," Faryn said. "I don't pillage anything. I'm a _salvager_! I rescue quality-made goods from rust and neglect! A savior to abandoned equipment!"

She rolled her eyes. It was the biggest load of rubbish she'd ever heard, but wasn't going to push the matter. She had more important business to attend to than a thief with delusions of grandeur. "Did you happen to find a qunari sword?"

The salvager blinked. "Qunari? I'm afraid I don't know the word."

"The people you looted by Lake Calenhad."

"Oh, _them_! Well, I have a few shields here," he said, gesturing to a small pile in a back corner of his makeshift stall. "I had one sword, but I sold it already."

"Who did you sell it to?"

"A collector. I can't go telling you all about my paying customers. One, it's not ethical, and two, it's bad for business."

Myranda pursed her lips, her patience wearing thin and her temper mounting.

"A lot of my customers are sensitive types," Faryn went on, oblivious to the woman's mounting anger. "They don't want their personal business related to every stranger who happens along."

Myranda grabbed the man by the front of the shirt and jerked him up. "Tell me, or I'll let the original owner know where you are." She pointed toward the giant qunari who was loitering nearby, watching the salvager's eyes widen and deciding to give him one more thing to think about. "I have seen him tear the arms off of stronger men than you." She smirked evilly as the blood left the man's face. She shook the man once, hard, to regain his undivided attention. "Now tell me: where is that sword?" She emphasized each of the last four words.

"Redcliffe," he said quickly. "The guy who bought it lives in Redcliffe. He's a collector. A dwarf named Dwyn, I think." He gulped as Myranda narrowed her eyes calculatingly. "I don't want any trouble. Tell the giant I don't have it, would you? I don't, I swear!"

Myranda tossed the man away and stalked from the stall toward where Sten stood watching her. "I don't flatter myself to think you were waiting for me," she said as she passed.

"I was."

She stopped and stared at him, wondering what he was playing at.

"You were looking for my sword."

"As a matter of fact, I was."

He nodded and said no more.

Myranda shrugged and continued toward the gate, feeling the qunari's presence behind her. They caught up to the party at the base of a large staircase, where they appeared to be waiting for her. "What's the problem?" she asked Alistair.

"Loghain's men," he said, jerking his thumb toward the top of the stairway, where three men were arguing with a dwarf. "And from the looks of things, they're not letting anyone in, so I thought you'd better be here, since you have the treaty."

She nodded and led the way up the stairs where the spokesman for the three was snootily informing the dwarven guard that he was "insulting Ferelden" and that the delay of Loghain's appointed messenger would not be "suffered."

" _Veata_!" the obviously exasperated guard said. "This land is held in trust for the sovereign dwarven kings. I cannot allow entry at this time."

"King Loghain demands the allegiance of the deshyr," the messenger said. "Or lords or whatever you call them in your Assembly! I am his appointed messenger."

"I don't care if you're the king's wiper," the guard replied. "Orzammar will have none but its own until our throne is settled."

"I have business in Orzammar," Myranda said, inserting herself into the conversation. "I have urgent need to talk to your king."

"Who doesn't?" Loghain's messenger asked rhetorically. He eyed her up and down with a slight sneer. "If I don't get in, no one should."

"Orzammar has no king," the guard told Myranda. "Endrin Aeducan returned to the Stone not three weeks ago, sick over the loss of his sons."

The blonde woman blinked slowly. Three weeks ago they had almost been two days from Redcliffe castle.

"The Assembly has gone through a dozen votes without agreeing on a successor. If it is not settled soon, we risk a civil war."

"You have my sympathy," she said. "But a Blight is coming. They must unite for Ferelden."

"Wait," Loghain's messenger said, eyeing her suspiciously, "who are _you_ to speak for Ferelden? You're no messenger to Loghain, that's for certain."

"Thank the ancestors."

This last was muttered under the guard's breath, but Myranda heard the comment and smirked before reaching into her quiver. "The Grey Wardens need their traditional dwarven allies. This treaty obliges Orzammar to aid us," she added, handing the parchment scroll over to him.

"The Wardens killed King Cailan and nearly _doomed_ Ferelden!" Loghain's messenger sputtered as the two men with him—bodyguards, apparently—readied their weapons. "They're sworn enemies of King Loghain!"

"Oh, shut up," Myranda spat.

The guard, meanwhile, had ignored the messenger entirely while examining the treaty. "Well, that _is_ the royal seal," he said at last, rolling up the parchment and handing it back. "That means only the Assembly is authorized to address it. Grey Warden, you and your party may pass."

The blonde woman nodded. "Thank you."

The messenger looked like his jaw would hit the stone at his feet. "You're letting in a traitor? And a _foreigner_?" he asked. "In the name of King Loghain I demand that you execute this..." his voice trailed off as he pointed at Myranda, searching for a word, " _stain_ on the honor of Ferelden!"

Myranda had had enough by this point. In one fluid movement, she drew her sword and sliced off the messenger's finger before holding the point to his neck. "I was always taught it was rude to point and inelegant to whine like a stuck pig. It is obvious you are not and _will_ not be given passage, so I suggest you run along back to your false king and tell him the dwarves will not hear him."

The messenger looked like he was about to challenge the party, but the numerical disadvantage of his two bodyguards against the Grey Wardens' three rogues, two warriors, two mages and a mabari obviously occurred to him... as well as the fact that he, being unarmed, would be no match for any of them. "You... you'll hear of this!" he threatened hollowly. "King Loghain will see you quartered!" He nodded to his guard, following them down the steps.

Myranda watched them walk away for a moment before looking at Zevran. "How many men does it take to deliver a message?" she asked.

A smile slowly crept up the elf's face. "Only one."

The blonde smirked and nodded, sending the assassin after Loghain's messenger party. "My apologies," she said, turning back to the dwarven guard, "for bloodying your doorstep."

"You've done me a service," the guard said. "That fool Imrek was barking for a week. Are all humans so touched?"

"Only the stupid ones," Myranda replied, sheathing her sword again. "And Loghain's forces seem to be bursting with them... probably because they're easier to browbeat and control."

"We're on the edge of civil war ourselves," Alistair added. "A Blight, apparently, being the perfect time for things to fall apart."

"At least Loghain will have two less salaries to pay," Zevran said as he rejoined them, looking quite pleased with himself.

The guard turned and nodded to two dwarves behind him, who pulled open the massive doors with apparent ease. "You are free to enter Orzammar, Grey Wardens," he told the party, "though I don't know what help you will find."

Myranda wasn't going to hope for much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for this!!!! I don't mean to be a cruel bitch to Myranda... but you knew I couldn't have her be heavily pregnant and fighting the archdemon, too! Myranda's badass, but not that much! Alistair probably wouldn't even let her leave Redcliffe when the army marched to Denerim! So... I'm sorry. Please don't hate me!


	31. Dwarven Politics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Orzammar's problems are the worst thus far, and the Grey Wardens are asked by both contenders to help secure the throne.

**Chapter 31: Dwarven Politics**

_"Politics is almost as exciting as war, and quite as dangerous. In war you can only be killed once, but in politics many times." ~Winston Churchill_

 

The party blinked as they entered the dimness of the caves, wandering down the long entry corridor. Lining the hallway in carved out niches were statues of several dwarves of both genders—though there were notably more men than women—and various ages.

"If there is anything complimentary to be said about these people," Morrigan said, "'tis that they possess a remarkable facility for carving stone."

Myranda nodded. "These statues are quite impressive."

"They're dwarven Paragons, if I remember right," Alistair said. "The best of their ancestors."

"How magnificent," Wynne said.

"Do you think they sell miniatures of these in the city?" Leliana asked. "I would love to have some on my mantle."

"So these are the important people in their history?" Myranda asked.

"More than that," Zevran put in. "The dwarves worship their own ancestors, if you can believe it."

"Hm." She looked at the inscription at the base of each statue: Aeducan, who led the defenses of Orzammar against the darkspawn when they first poured into the Deep Roads; Astyth the Grey, the only female Paragon Myranda saw, who apparently was of the Warrior Caste and founded something called the Silent Sisters. "Their best?" she asked Alistair finally. "Look at this: 'Seuss, named Paragon for his most excellent rhyming skills, 2:15 Glory.'" She pointed to the statue they had just passed. "'Varen: discovered that nugs are edible.' What in Andraste's name is a nug? And why is it so important that they be edible?"

"I suppose we'll find out," he said, patting her shoulder comfortingly. She was edgy and he knew why, but it would not endear them to the dwarves. Almost immediately he felt her shoulders drop as she breathed a heavy sigh, her melancholy returning and draping over her like a thick, oppressive blanket. He frowned, giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

At the end of the long hallway they met another guard who stood by an inner door, apparently into the city proper.

" _Atrast vala_ , Wardens," he said. "Your arrival is a mixed blessing. We prefer outsiders not witness our infighting, but your presence... will be tolerated."

"Oh, thank you," Myranda said, managing to keep most of the acidic sarcasm from her voice.

"I shall alert the Captain of the Guard of your presence. Fair travels, Wardens," he added as he opened the inner door and preceded them into the impressiveness that was the dwarven city of Orzammar.

It wasn't nearly as dark as Myranda would have expected; the city seemed to be lit by a strange inner light. The buildings sat squatting around the outer rim beneath the impossibly high ceiling of the large circular space, a large column in the center accessible by a single wide bridge across a wide crevasse. It was also quite warm for an underground cave. The guard left them gaping at the door and walked over to another stern-looking dwarf in heavy armor.

"Wow," Alistair breathed, untying his cloak. "So this is Orzammar? It's huge!"

Sten grunted. "Not bad."

Myranda's attention, however, was called away from the view to the argument that was forming a few feet away from them between two groups of dwarves: one led by a young man and the other led by a much older one. The hair on the back of Myranda's neck stood up as the meeting began to look more and more like a standoff.

"It is the Assembly who makes a king," the older dwarf was saying "and a king who nominates his successor. None of it is carried in the blood."

The younger dwarf sneered at this. "Or as now, when someone tries using the Assembly to pull a coup. Who's to say what my father said in his final hours when the usurper Harrowmont was the only one by his side?"

The older man—Harrowmont, apparently—bristled at the insult. "I'll have you thrown in prison!"

"You've bitten off more than you can chew!"

"Handlers!" the guard who had opened the inner door called, rushing over to the standoff. "Separate these deshyrs in the Diamond Quarter! I will not have Bhelen incite a riot!"

A heavily armored dwarf next to the younger of the two adversaries stepped toward the guard. "You'll not speak that way about the man who should be King!" he said, pulling a large double-bladed axe from his back and slicing into the guard, killing him in two strokes.

Myranda backed up a step, shocked not by the death, but at the speed at which the argument had turned to murder. Also, the nobles seemed mostly unconcerned by the death, though they moved quickly away from the area, leaving the Captain of the Guard yelling about not having fighting in the Commons. " _Great_ ," she muttered. "We managed to save the _biggest_ problem for last."

"Apparently everyone seems to agree that a Blight is the perfect time to start killing each other," Morrigan added. " _Marvelous_ , really."

The blonde reached up to rub at her temples to ward off an impending headache. "Three weeks," she said. "Three weeks ago we wouldn't have had to deal with any of this."

"You can't blame yourself for the death of their king," Wynne said. "There was no way to know."

"No... no there wasn't. But damn if this isn't going to be a pain in the ass."

They strode into the city, catching the eye of the Captain of the Guard.

" _Veata_ , surfacers!" he said, striding toward them, bristling with hostility. "I am bid to let you walk the Commons, but keep your place. Warden or not, I want order."

"The Blight is coming and I need Orzammar's assistance," Myranda told him.

"Surface problems," the guard captain said dismissively. "We have no king to hear you. You can join the shouting at the Assembly in the Diamond Quarter, if you want." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward a large, ornate staircase leading to an upper level of the city. "Bunch of deshyr lords bickering over sand," he muttered. "Bhelen, Harrowmont... is one so different? No Paragons here."

Myranda wondered what good a Paragon would do for the kingdom, but didn't care enough to ask.

"Can a city function like this?" Leliana asked. "It seems like chaos!"

The guard captain sighed in exasperation. "See, that's why I don't want you surfacers seeing our worst," he growled. "You'll think that's all we are. The market is thin but busy, and the tavern never closes. Bad blood is usually kept to the Proving." He looked toward the staircase he had indicated earlier that led to what he had called the Diamond Quarter. "Should toss Bhelen and Harrowmont in there," he muttered, "sort this all out in a hurry."

Myranda lifted an eyebrow. "The Proving?"

"Personal battles for honor and ancestor." The Captain of the Guard nearly sneered at her. "I don't expect a surfacer to understand."

"Blood sport entertainment for the masses," Alistair said. "Recreation at its best!"

"If you _must_ be our Warden," the dwarf added, "at least _know_ us. Go to the Shaper of Memories in the Shaperate. The true bright spot in the Diamond Quarter."

"Sounds like Bhelen and Harrowmont are the ones to talk to," Myranda said, Alistair's hand on the small of her back the only thing keeping her from attacking the insufferable guard.

"They've caged themselves for fear of each other. As you've seen, keeping order down among us _working people_ is dodgy. No place for a proper lord." He waved a dismissive hand. "Bhelen speaks through his second, Vartag Gavorn, in the Assembly. Lord Harrowmont speaks through Dulin Forender from his estate."

"Fine. Thank you." She turned away, dismissing the Captain of the Guard just as readily as he dismissed them. "Well?" she said, addressing the group.

"A place to stay, I think, would be first on the list," Alistair said.

"I cannot imagine what sort of place passes for an inn here," Morrigan muttered.

"Anything's better than sleeping on the ground, as far as I'm concerned," Wynne put in.

"However small the beds may be," Zevran added. "Especially for our qunari friend here."

Sten grunted.

"Right," Myranda said.

A new, much younger throat cleared itself from nearby. "Uh, excuse me?"

Myranda looked around to see a dwarf child with red hair and freckles standing nearby. Well, perhaps not so much a child—she was probably fifteen or sixteen.

"I, uh... Do you have a moment?" she asked.

"Apparently."

The girl smiled hesitantly. "You... look like you're not from around here."

Myranda couldn't help the smirk that crept up her lips at this statement of the obvious. The girl was clearly nervous. "Yes, you could say that."

"Oh, _wonderful_!" the teenage dwarf enthused. "I've been trying forever to find someone who really knows the surface world." She hesitated, looking around at the group, before deciding to ask her question. "I-I don't suppose you've heard of something called 'The Circle?'"

Myranda glanced at Wynne. "My companion here is a senior enchanter of the Circle," she said, gesturing toward the older woman.

The girl's eyes widened and she gasped with excitement. "Oh, my lady, it's an _honor_!" she gushed. "My name is Dagna, daughter of Janar of the Smith Caste." She gaped at Wynne for a moment. "I've never met an actual mage. Is it true you can manipulate nature's forces with your mind? Like you were born with lyrium in your veins?" Her voice trailed upward with excitement.

"Don't let the glamour fool you, child," Wynne said. "Wielding magic is a dangerous occupation and a great responsibility."

"'Tis difficult to comprehend your preference for the leash you wear," Morrigan said to the older mage. "You fear your abilities, instead of reveling in them."

"And why would a dwarf be interested in the Circle?" Myranda asked, moving the subject away from the Circle proper before Morrigan and Wynne could get into another fight about it.

"I've been trying to reach someone there for years," Dagna said. "I've sent missives with every caravan, but I never get a reply. I want to know if they would accept me for study."

Myranda blinked. "For study? Why wouldn't they?"

"No dwarf has ever studied at the Circle of Magi," the girl said, as if it were common knowledge. "I guess you never read First Enchanter Caethelun's 'Treatise Concerning Dwarves and the Non-Heritablity of Magic.'"

"Er... no. I... can't say I have."

"He tested dwarves from twenty bloodlines, and found they couldn't perform any level of spell casting, regardless of lyrium exposure or time on the surface," Dagna explained. "The Circle speculates that lyrium in the Stone shields us from spiritual influences and over time made us immune to them."

Myranda paused, trying to puzzle out the girl's motivations. "Then... what do you want with the Circle?"

"I want to go to the Circle to study about magic," she said.

"I assure you," Morrigan said, "that desire will depart the moment you arrive."

"I don't want to do magic," Dagna told her. "No dwarf can cast spells, but I don't see why I shouldn't study it. It would be a valuable exchange," she went on reasonably. "Orzammar would learn of one of the great natural forces of the surface. And the Circle gains direct access to our knowledge of lyrium smithing."

Myranda looked at Alistair. "Well?"

"Seems fair to me, though I wonder if the Chantry wouldn't try to take advantage of the knowledge."

"Her request is a reasonable one," Wynne added. "I see no reason why we can't talk to Irving on her behalf."

"And the tower's on our way back to Redcliffe," Myranda mused. She turned back to Dagna. "I can bring the Circle your request, certainly."

Dagna's eyes widened and she smiled with pure delight. "That would be _wonderful_!" she cried. "Tell them I've already begun reading the Tevinter Imperium's 'Fortikum Kadab,' and it's just _fascinating_!" Her eyes gleamed as she warmed to the subject. "Did you know the Imperial Magister Lords once had genealogies of every human family known to produce a mage child?" She drew a ragged, excited gasp, bouncing on the balls of her feet in her giddy glee. "Oh, I'll go pack my bags right now!" she said before racing of toward a row of smithies.

Leliana giggled to herself. "She's so enthusiastic and adorable. I'm glad we're helping her."

Myranda's smile saddened a little and she sighed heavily. "Come on. We should find a place to stay."

They wandered along the street—which seemed to slope downward—before Wynne stopped outside one building, the sign for which read "Tapsters."

"Is that drunken singing I hear?" the mage asked with amusement.

Zevran laughed. "Drunken dwarves! What could be the harm in a few of those?"

"A drink," Myranda said. "That may be just what I need."

They wandered inside, blinking at the overpowering smell of stale beer. The tavern's main room was large, though crowded, despite the early hour. Several heads turned to regard them as they entered, but most turned back to their drinks.

"Is this some form of mass suicide?" Sten asked.

Myranda smirked. "You could say that, yes." She turned her head to the auburn-haired woman who was approaching them—large, though still with a good figure and a cheery and welcoming smile.

" _Atrast vala_ , strangers. Welcome to Tapsters," she said politely. "I'm Corra," she said by way of introduction, "your hostess. How my I serve you?"

"We need accommodations," Myranda said. "My party and I apparently are going to be in Orzammar until the business with your throne is sorted out."

"Oh? And what brought you to Orzammar in the first place, stranger?"

"I am a Grey Warden," the blonde explained, ignoring the tizzy in the room this statement caused.

"Ah, ha," Corra said. "Welcome indeed." She looked around at the party, pursing her lips in thought. "I think I can put something together for you." She grabbed the arm of a passing dwarf boy and said a few words to him before he hurried upstairs, waving for three more to follow him. "Have a seat," she said, waving toward a large table, "and I'll get you something."

Morrigan made a face. "Ugh. I would advise against such a thing."

"Come now, Morrigan," Wynne said, pulling out a chair for herself. "I've always wanted to try some dwarven ale. I hear it's quite potent."

"I once drank a thimble full," Leliana said as she and the others joined the older mage. "Woke up a week later in Jader wearing nothing but my shoes and a towel."

Morrigan sniffed. "And, of course, this provides me with undue excitement to have some myself," she said sarcastically.

It was at this point that Corra returned with a tray and seven mugs, placing the tray in the center of the table.

"Here you are," she said. "Seeing as you're all surfacers, I thought it might be best to start you with something light. Anything else I can do for you?"

Myranda looked up at her. "Can you tell me a bit about the city?"

The dwarf woman raised an eyebrow and smirked before shrugging. "I guess you're not asking for anything official, or you'd be at the Shaperate, but I can certainly give you a mole's-eye view."

"Shaperate?" Leliana repeated.

"It's the bureau of all the shapers in Orzammar, led by the shaper of memories." She looked around at them. "If you're from the surface, I guess you'd call them scholars. They keep all of our records, laws, genealogies…" her voice trailed off. "You got questions about Orzammar's history... and don't mind answers in words as long as your _leg_... that's the place to go."

"I'll keep that in mind," Myranda said. "Any place else I should see while I'm here?"

Corra shrugged. "The nobles stay upstairs except when they're slumming. You'll find the Assembly there, the palace, the Shaperate, and plenty of estates." She jerked her head back to indicate a direction that would be to their left when they walked out of the tavern. "Down from here is just Dust Town or the mines, so my recommendation is 'avoid.'"

"Dust Town," Zevran said. "What a charming name for a part of a city."

"It's not part of the city," Corra corrected him, a slight chill in her voice, "just some old tunnels where the casteless build their nests. No one goes there if they can help it." The smirk returned to her lips. "But if you want fun, your best bet is the Proving. It's a chance for all the best fighters in Orzammar to test their skills. Word is there's going to be a tournament soon—arena's between here and the Diamond Quarter."

"I see," Myranda said. "That may be good for a lark. But we came to ask your king to aid us in the Blight."

"Well, you might try addressing the Assembly in the Diamond Quarter," Corra suggested. "Maybe then all the arse-kissing will stop and something will actually be _accomplished_ , though I'm not gonna hold my breath." This last was muttered under her breath.

"Right," Myranda said, rising. "Then I suppose I should go there and see what I can do."

"I'll go with you," Alistair offered.

"No, no. Stay here." She took his hand and squeezed it a little, smiling a little at him. "I'll be back before supper."

 

 

Hours later, Myranda hadn't returned. Alistair had passed the time waiting for her as best he could: sharpening and polishing his sword as well as her dagger, arranging the room—or, more specifically, the two dwarf-sized beds—to suit them, and shining his armor. He kept looking up at the sound of footsteps in the hall, though none of them were hers and he knew it. He finally sighed and decided he should probably go looking for her. Fortunately, he didn't have to wander all over the city; he found her at the bar, nursing a flagon of a pale brew of some sort. "So here you are."

She looked over at him, her head falling back and a smile crossing her lips. "Hi there," she said.

"Hi." He grinned at her as he sat on the stool next to her. "How are you?"

"Oh... _fine_ ," she said, taking a swallow from her cup. "After four hours at the Assembly adding to the shouting and accomplishing nothing, I'm better with every swallow."

"How many of those have you had?"

"Including this one?"

"Yes."

She lifted the flagon to her lips, draining it of its contents before placing it firmly back on the bar. "Two," she said.

"You know, I tried dwarven ale once," he told her.

"Really?"

He nodded. "I thought it was just something they tricked surfacers into drinking as a joke."

"You should try the mead... it's not bad." She waved to the dwarven woman at the other end of the bar. "Corra? Two more, if you please."

"Myranda, I think you've had enough..."

"Nonsense! I'm not even tipsy." She shot him a lopsided grin as the two filled flagons of mead were placed on the bar in front of her, pushing one towards him. "Come on, Ali-bear. Don't make me drink alone."

He lifted an eyebrow at the denial and the new nickname before chuckling and taking a swallow from the large flagon.

The pints—which Alistair didn't get all the way through—proved to be too much for both of them as they leaned against each other, giggling uncontrollably. This was made worse for Myranda when Alistair developed a case of the hiccups along with his giggles, and she nearly fell off her stool from laughing. She also batted her eyelashes at him and reminded him every five minutes or so that she loved him. After a half-hour, Myranda finally finished her pint, the flagon falling onto its side as she tried to set it down on its rim.

"I think..." she started to say before giggling again. "I think it's bedtime."

He nodded, wavering. "I— _hic!_ —I think so."

"Corra!" she called.

"Ready for another, Warden?" the dwarven young woman offered with an amused smirk on her face.

Myranda giggled at the smile before waving her hand. "Naw. I think 'm drunk enough." This was followed by another bout of giggles. "I owe you somethin'."

The young hostess laughed a little to herself. "I'll put it on your tab," she said.

"My good woman, you're too kind. A round of your best for the house!"

Corra nodded as the other patrons cheered. "A round of Valenta's Red for everyone! And I suppose you're going to stumble up to bed?" she added to the blonde woman.

"I think we are," she agreed, giggling as Alistair tried to get his hiccups under control and only succeeded in making them worse. "Come on, Ali-bear," she said, holding onto the bar as she slid off the stool.

"Coming, m'love," he said before hiccupping again.

She wrapped her arms around him, laughing as he fell against her before grinning up at him. "I love you."

They supported each other as best they could going up the stairs, stumbling from one side to the other as they climbed, giggling madly. They fell against their door and Myranda tried valiantly to fit the key into the lock without any success. The frustration was terribly funny, however, and they both slid down to the floor in a pile of silly laughter.

"I can't get the key in the door," Myranda managed around her giggles.

Alistair snickered and hiccupped again. "Maybe... maybe we— _hic!_ —should both try."

"Gotta stand back up first."

They somehow managed to get back to their feet, leaning against each other and the door frame. Alistair wrapped one arm around Myranda's waist to support himself as he took her hand and the key with the other hand. Myranda closed one eye and stuck out her tongue a little, trying to focus enough to get the key into the lock and not giggle as Alistair hiccupped in her ear. They somehow managed to unlock the door, half falling into the room. They tumbled to the floor in a pile of giggles, looking at each other and only laughing harder.

Baby, laying by the fireplace, looked up at their noisy entrance before shifting to stretch out on his side.

"Maker, we're drunk," Myranda observed.

Alistair's only answer was to lean over and kiss her, a kiss she immediately returned. The intoxicated kiss deepened quickly as arms and legs were wrapped around each other and hands started to wander.

The kiss broke when Alistair pulled off Myranda's shirt and she realized suddenly that the door was still open. "Lemme close the door," she said with a giggle.

"Right."

They untangled themselves and Myranda, giving up for the moment on trying to stand a third time, crawled to the door and pushed it closed, pulling herself up to knees and managing to get the key back into the lock and turning it to lock the door back. Leaving the turned key in the lock, she pulled herself back up to her feet and stumbled over to the bed, falling onto it and into her lover's arms, both of them giggling madly. This was cut off suddenly by another heated kiss, Alistair gripping her thigh and pulling her leg around his waist, eliciting a surprised moan from Myranda. "My, but you're _awfully_ forward, Ali-bear," she teased with a giggle.

"I want you, Myra," he murmured.

"Your hiccups are gone."

"All the better."

 

 

In the morning, Myranda woke to find herself tangled up in the bed sheets and Alistair and suffering a splitting headache. She couldn't remember most of the previous night… except there had been some amazing drunken sex that had happened, and while she seemed to remember trying some new positions and liking them, she couldn't remember what those positions _were_. She had needed the sex, apparently… certain parts of her body cried out for more, while her head insisted she do no such thing. She closed her eyes and lifted her hands to rub her temples, trying to ease the pounding between her ears.

She heard Alistair groan then. "Myranda?"

"I'd say good morning, but I'm not sure I believe the 'good' part." She opened her eyes to look at him. "Do you remember _anything_ we did last night?"

He lifted his eyes toward the ceiling in thought before closing them with a groan. "Don't ask me to think," he said, covering his closed eyes with his hand. "My head might explode."

"And there was enough of that last night." She smirked at the blush that crept up his neck. "All I remember is the sex was amazing... I just wish I could remember some of those positions we were in."

"I don't think I could do them sober." He moved his hand away from one eye and opened it to look at her. "By the way," he said slowly. "'Ali-bear'?"

Myranda's emerald eyes snapped up to his. "Maker's breath," she swore, "I didn't call you that, did I?"

"Several times."

"Oh." An embarrassed smile crossed her lips. "I... I'm sorry. That's been my little nickname for you for a while... but I never expected to actually _call_ you that."

"But why Ali- _bear_?"

Myranda laughed a little. "When Oren was a baby, one of the toys Oriana had for him was a stuffed bear that had sandy-colored fur. It was big and soft and he wouldn't sleep without it. Father brought it back from one of his trips before Oren was born, and I remember wanting one myself, even though I was seventeen at the time." She snuggled against him. "I guess thinking about that bear reminded me how I think about you: big, warm, gentle, and nice to cuddle with."

Alistair smiled a little, tightening his arm around her. "Then I'll take it as a compliment."

"Do."

He ran his hand gently down her body to her abdomen, frowning a little as he remembered their lost princess. "How are you this morning?" he asked gently.

"I'm... better, I think." Myranda sighed. "I think that was one of the reasons I was drinking last night. I was frustrated by my lack of progress with the Assembly, but I was also trying to forget..." her voice trailed off and she lowered her eyes, resting her forehead on his shoulder, willing herself not to cry. "I just feel like it was my fault somehow."

"It wasn't your fault," he told her. "The taint doesn't help."

She nodded. "Most don't survive the Joining," she murmured.

"That's right."

"I just... I wanted so much to have the child... _your_ child." Her voice caught a little and she took a deep breath, fighting back the tears that again threatened to well in her eyes. "But it's gone... and it does me no good to dwell."

"We'll just have to try again."

Myranda looked up at him and smiled a little. "A process you seem to be enjoying very much."

"I do enjoy it." He nuzzled her gently. "But I've hated seeing you like this. I want you to be happy, Myranda."

"I am happy," she said. "I have you; that makes me happy."

He smiled and kissed her softly, a kiss she returned and deepened immediately. It almost made him forget the incessant pounding in his brain. "I love you," he murmured when she pulled away several moments later.

"I love you, too." She grinned a little, then added, "Ali-bear."

Alistair grinned and growled playfully at her as his hands tickled across her stomach and sides, causing her to giggle and squirm until she caught his hands, interlacing her fingers with his. They looked at each other and smiled, Alistair reluctantly pulling one hand from hers before trailing his fingertips along her face. Myranda leaned her head against his, taking comfort in his warmth and nearness, allowing his pure, unconditional love to soothe the ache from the loss of their child. She closed her eyes, breathing in his scent, enjoying the feel and taste of his kiss when his lips met hers.

Their hands moved slowly, teasing and inflaming and building the passion between them. They came together, loving slowly and gently, their dance as much about intimacy as lust. A long time later they reached a small peak, Myranda gasping softly before kissing Alistair again, moaning gently into his mouth as he released into her. She sighed when he gently broke the kiss. "I love you," she whispered.

"And I love you," he murmured into her ear, kissing her neck in the exact place that made her shudder every time.

They lay together, kissing and touching gently before Alistair gave her one last kiss and got up. "I'll go get us some breakfast," he promised as he dressed.

Myranda smiled. "You're so sweet," she said. "Come here."

He walked back over to the bed, accepting her kiss with a smile before gently pulling away again. "Oh, I can't wait until all this is over," he murmured.

"When we can lay in bed together all day?"

"That sounds good."

Myranda grinned and kissed him one last time before he pulled away and left her. She was just starting to think about getting dressed when he returned with a small tray with two bowls. "What's that?" she asked, sitting up and ignoring how the sheet pooled around her waist.

"Corra insisted it was porridge." He looked at the bowls uncertainly. "I'm not so sure it doesn't have some ale in it."

"Maybe she thinks it will help our hangovers."

"Possibly." He placed the tray on her lap before bracing his hands on the bed, leaning over to kiss her neck.

Myranda giggled. "Don't make me rip your clothes off and make love to you again."

"You say that like it would be a _bad_ thing, my dear," he said teasingly, nibbling up to her ear.

She turned her head to catch his lips in a deep kiss, sucking gently on his lower lip. "Breakfast first, Ali-bear," she said after she had pulled away.

Alistair grinned and rubbed his nose playfully against hers before pulling away from her, sitting at the end of the bed.

They talked mostly about the problems they were sure to face during their stay over the ale-laced porridge. After breakfast, Myranda finally dressed, and was just pulling on her shirt when there was a knock at the door. "See who that is, would you, darling?" She had just unpinned her braids to brush out her hair when she heard an unfamiliar voice from the doorway.

"Grey Wardens?"

Myranda looked around Alistair to see a dwarf standing at the door. Though he still looked young, his light brown hair and beard were lightly streaked with grey. He was in light chainmail armor and had a large sword strapped to his back.

"I heard there were Grey Wardens here," he said, looking between the two humans.

"We are, yes," Myranda said.

"I am Dulin Forender," the dwarf said with a bow, "second to Lord Harrowmont, King Endrin's own choice as successor."

"How do you do?" Myranda said politely. "I'm Myranda, and this is my fellow Warden, Alistair." She stepped out of the doorway and waved the dwarf inside. "Won't you come in, ser?"

"Thank you." He stepped into the room, turning back to them as Alistair closed the door. "Word is spreading that the surface may suffer a Blight. It is shameful we are not in a better position to help."

"Yes, I was in the Assembly yesterday," Myranda said, sitting at the nearby table. "I would like to speak with Lord Harrowmont directly about it."

Dulin looked uncomfortable. "In an ordinary time, Lord Harrowmont would be honored to meet you."

Myranda and Alistair exchanged a look.

"Unfortunately, we've already caught more than one of Bhelen's spies approaching Harrowmont under a pretense of friendship."

"But we just _got_ here," Alistair said.

The dwarf shook his head. "I'm afraid I won't be able to take your word. If you want to speak to Harrowmont, you will need to prove he can trust you."

Myranda lifted an eyebrow. "And how can I prove I'm not working for Bhelen?"

"That's a generous offer," Dulin said. "If you mean it, you might attend the Proving tomorrow."

The other eyebrow lifted. "Attend the ritualized bloodbath?"

"They deshyrs take it very seriously," the dwarf said with a frown. "And unfortunately, Bhelen found some way to blackmail or intimidate House Harrowmont's best fighters into stepping down."

Myranda settled back in her chair, seeing where this was going. "And you want me to find out why your fighters dropped out." It was not a question.

"That would be... enlightening," Dulin said hesitantly, "though I hope you won't pry too deeply into things they don't wish revealed."

Emerald eyes narrowed and Alistair stepped closer to her chair to calm her somewhat... or at least to hold her back if she tried to attack the dwarf.

"If you wish to show your loyalty," Dulin said, "enter the Proving as his lordship's champion."

" _Enter_?" Alistair repeated in shock.

The dwarf looked at him. "With your order's reputation, I've no doubt the ancestors would favor your arm." He looked back at Myranda. "Bhelen would never work with anyone who humiliated him in that way, and Lord Harrowmont would have no fear of meeting with you then."

Myranda sat back in her chair. "I'll go to the Proving and see why the others withdrew," she said.

The older man's face lit up. "Excellent. Talk to the Proving Master and tell him you're entering Lord Harrowmont's roster."

"And your fighters...?"

"The key fighters we lost were Gwiddon and Baizyl. You can look for them in the fighters' preparation chambers, behind the ring. And be sure it's before the fights begin. After the first bout, no one may change the roster."

Myranda nodded. "Very well."

"If you need to find me again, I will wait in the common room. There is no better place to hear gossip." He smiled. "Perhaps even word of your victory." With that he bowed deeply to the two Wardens and exited the room, closing the door firmly behind him.

"I—" Alistair cut off his comment when Myranda held up her hand. She walked on silent feet—a new trick she had learned from Zevran—over to the bed and reached for the tray, placing the spoons away from the bowls so they would make no noise as she moved. She carried the tray over to the door, balancing one end on her hip as she jerked open the door and not looking at all surprised to find Dulin still standing there, his ear leaned toward her. He looked startled and slightly embarrassed at being caught.

"Ah, ser," Myranda said with a saccharine sweet smile. "I'm glad I caught you before you returned downstairs. Could you take this to kitchen for us?" she asked, shoving the tray into his hands before noisily stacking the dishes so that they clattered with the dwarf's every move. "Thank you!" she said as she closed the door again in his face. The false smile faded immediately and she listened as the rattling slowly traveled down the hall and faded away. She waited another moment, then cracked the door open again to peek outside. The hallway was empty. "Now you may speak," she said to Alistair as she shut the door again.

"I don't like the idea of you entering the Proving," he said.

"I'm not going to."

"But you said..."

"I said I would go to the Proving and see why the others withdrew. I never said I was going to enter." She grinned as she walked over and tapped him on the nose. "Noble Ploy Number One: Agree to nothing that you find unsavory, but in a manner that makes your counterpart believe you are doing everything they want."

He blinked. "How many of those ploys are there?"

"Dozens upon dozens."

Alistair closed his eyes and winced. "Dear Maker, I hope they don't force me to be king," he said. "My head hurts just thinking about it."

"That's probably just your hangover, dearest."

 

 

They found Wynne at the bar, engaged in a lively conversation with Corra about dwarven ales and the differences between them and their sister brews from the surface. Wynne offered them a half-pint, which both Wardens quickly refused, earning a laugh from their good-natured hostess. As Myranda was telling the mage about their visit from the dwarf lord's second, another dwarf, with a full red beard and smelling strongly of ale, wandered over and tapped her on the hip.

"Hey," he said, "I heard about you. Grey Warden, coming from the surface, great crisis in the world."

Myranda looked at her companions before glancing at Corra, who only rolled her eyes.

"People are saying how you've thrown yourself on Harrowmont's wagon train. I figured you'd be the one, you know, who could help me find Branka. But I guess you're just like all the rest," he grumbled.

"My only concern is raising allies against the Blight," Myranda said. "If I have to help decide your king to do that, so be it."

"You don't need a king to face a Blight," the drunken dwarf said. "You need a Paragon!"

Myranda raised an eyebrow. _This_ was a new one. Even Baby whined in confusion.

"The Assembly elects them, but they're higher than the Assembly," the dwarf said. "They become nobles, but they're more than anyone born to a house. They're what every dwarf with a spine not made of soap dreams of being!"

"And this Branka is one of them?"

"City's only living Paragon, and she's been lost in the Deep Roads for two years! Two years and no one's raised a bleeding army to go look for her." He narrowed his eyes. "What's it matter to you, huh? You trying to find out her secrets? That what Harrowmont sent you here for?"

"Oghren..." Corra began.

"You keep out of this, woman!" The dwarf—Oghren—looked back at Myranda. "I know he's been poking around, trying to find things out about her, what she was looking for. Won't tell me spit, though. He wants it for himself, right? A little blessing from the ancients' technology, and he's assured the throne, is that is?"

"What are you talking about?" Alistair asked.

"What technology?" Myranda added.

"You _are_ looking for it!" Oghren said. "Of course. That's all anyone cares about." He glared up at the blonde woman. "Well, sod off and sod your mother, too!"

Baby barked and lunged at him.

"Hey, watch it, ya sodding great horse of a dog! I need a bleeding drink!"

"Oghren," Corra tried again.

Oghren ignored her outright this time. "You keep on your errands," he said to Myranda. "Until your boss really commits to looking, you're getting nothing but smoke out of old Oghren."

Myranda watched as he wandered away out of the tavern. "What just happened?"

"That was... strange..." Alistair agreed.

"That's just Oghren," Corra said. "Don't mind him too much. Every day since Branka picked up her whole house except him and went to the Deep Roads two years ago, he's been coming in here drunk. Well," she went on in a manner of correcting herself, "drunker than usual."

Wynne joined them as the Wardens and Baby left to explore the city, the four meeting Leliana and Zevran exiting one of the smithies. The bard had left her daggers with the smith to be professionally sharpened while the assassin sported a new, slender, and wicked-looking knife. They agreed to accompany the group, Zevran immediately launching into teasing Wynne.

The banter stopped immediately as they were approached by a young, official-looking armored dwarf.

"Wardens, welcome," he said, nodding his head to them. "It is always a blessing for Orzammar to host your order. I am Vartag Gavorn, top advisor to our good Prince Bhelen."

"How do you do?" Myranda said politely, though her head was starting to hurt again just at the thought of what this meeting would entail.

"What news do you bring?"

"I need aid against a Blight."

"Yes, yes, the treaty," Vartag said somewhat dismissively. "I've seen it in the shapers' libraries. Now, the difficulty is that the treaty only compels our _king_ , and we are sadly lacking one of those right now."

"Yes," Alistair said. "We noticed."

"May I speak with Bhelen?" Myranda asked, already knowing the answer.

"You must understand," Vartag said, "Harrowmont hides behind his good reputation while sending spies and assassins. Bhelen can't know who to trust." He shook his head sympathetically. "It's been like a knife in the heart for Bhelen to see so many of his father's men stand with the usurper."

"You will forgive me for being blunt," the blonde woman said, "as I am suffering from a hangover, but what, pray tell, must I do to prove my good intentions?"

"Harrowmont has engaged in a campaign of bribery and coercion to ensure that every house serves him," the dwarf explained. "But if a neutral party, a stranger, were to approach certain key members, perhaps with irrefutable evidence of Harrowmont's deception…" his voice trailed off provocatively.

"Irrefutable evidence?" Wynne repeated incredulously. "Which I suppose _you_ have?"

"I'm certain my lord prince would show his gratitude," Vartag said.

"What kind of evidence?" Myranda asked.

"Harrowmont promised the same portion of his estate to two different deshyrs, Lady Dace and Lord Helmi. Harrowmont can't possibly grant it to both of them, but they won't find out until after the vote is cast." He pulled two neatly folded papers from a pouch on his belt. "I have copies of the promissory notes Harrowmont gave each of them. Once they see those, they should both reconsider their votes."

"And where did you get them?" she asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

"That's not important," the dwarf said, causing Myranda to lift an eyebrow. "If they ask, say you found them while searching the shapers' libraries for your treaty."

This excuse was paper thin and they both knew it, but Myranda's skull ached too much for her to argue the point. Instead, she closed her eyes and sighed softly. "Fine," she said. "Give them here."

"Excellent," Vartag said, handing the notes over. "Just take these to Lady Dace and Lord Helmi and show them Harrowmont is not as honest as he claims."

"And where would we find them?"

"Lady Dace doesn't leave the Diamond Quarter much. But Lord Helmi's adventurous, likes to spend his time at Tapsters… in the Commons." He added this with a slight sneer.

"Yes, we're staying there."

"Remember," Vartag said, "don't tell them you got these papers from me. You learned of them and drew your own conclusions."

"Ohhh, ho, ho," Myranda said when the dwarf was out of earshot, looking at the two notes in her hand before shoving them into her belt pouch. "The courtship has begun."

"Courtship?" Alistair asked.

"The two sides are currying our favor. I call that a courtship."

"Surely there is no need for all this, my dear," Zevran said.

"When in Minrathous, Zevran, do as the Tevinters do."

"But didn't you agree to work for Lord Harrowmont this morning?" Wynne asked, her tone revealing her slight disapproval. "You will not be able to play both sides forever."

"I'm not playing both sides," Myranda told her flatly. "The only side I'm on is my own. We need allies for the Blight, though I'm debating that the dwarves are a necessary ally at this point."

They continued up the slightly sloping street, Myranda pausing outside one of the shops, gazing in the window. "Can we go in here?" she asked.

"Certainly!" Leliana said, reaching for the door. "Why not?"

They wandered inside and immediately the shopkeeper shuffled over to them.

"Greetings," he said in a slightly quivering voice, "and welcome to Garin Garinson's Luxury Goods Shoppe." He blinked as the group filed inside, wringing his hands, though there didn't appear to be any nervousness behind the gesture. "Wow, there are a lot of you. And I've never seen one of _those_ before," he added, eyeing Baby curiously.

Baby barked and panted good-naturedly.

"The things they come up with." The dwarf giggled a little before pulling himself together. "What was I saying?"

Myranda blinked. "Are you all right?" she asked, a little concerned about the shopkeeper's strange behavior.

"Oh..." the merchant looked embarrassed. "I-I-I was hoping you w-w-wouldn't notice. Most people don't anymore, or maybe they're too polite to mention it." He gave a nervous, embarrassed sort of laugh. "I had a little incident a few years back. Too much time with the raw lyrium ore, you know? Maybe it was a bad vein." He shrugged. "I, uh, I cut myself, and the dust got straight in the blood. Since then, it's been a little hard for me to concentrate. Except when forging," he added. "Then I'm straight as an arrow, best work you've ever seen." He waved an arm around the room. "L-l-look around the shop. See for yourself."

"Thank you, I will." She made a slow circuit of the shop, looking over the various weapons and trinkets. A delicate golden bracelet adorned with small, sparkling gems caught her eye and she picked it up to admire it before replacing it in its box.

Suddenly a long dagger caught her eye. The blade was dwarven steel, the mottling in a dark midnight red rather than the usual black, and fashioned into a wave pattern instead of being straight. The crossguard was a beautiful pink gold, with a small, delicate gold-tipped rose, carved from a clear garnet, in the middle. The quillons themselves were fashioned into leaves with a pair of thorny vines twisting around them. The rose gold also curled up the handle, a thin band wrapping around the black ceramic. The whole thing was capped by a large garnet pommel, this one more opaque than the one on the crossguard, but also carved into a rose.

"Beautiful dagger," she said, picking it up and inspecting it.

"Ah, yes," Garin said eagerly. "I-I didn't make that one, but the craftsmanship is of the highest quality." He giggled a little before recovering again. "It's called the Rose's Thorn."

Myranda looked over at Alistair, who grinned back at her. "Interesting," she said with a smile. She ran her finger along the blade and blinked at the thin, neat slice left behind. "It's functional?"

"You sound surprised," Alistair said, amused.

"I'm not used to a blade this pretty being functional as well."

"I know of this dagger," Leliana said. "In the darkest alleys, tales of the Black Rose prosper. He was an assassin without peer, little known except by his wake of bodies—and this dagger, left in the heart of a king. I had heard it had been lost, but this must be it."

"Maker knows it's gorgeous." Myranda looked over at the dwarven shopkeeper. "How much?"

"One hundred forty-eight gold, fifty-two silver and fifty copper," was the prompt reply.

The blonde gave low, appreciative whistle. "That's a lot." She shook her head. "Unfortunately, I don't have quite that much coin on me." She admired the blade for a while longer. "Oh, if only I were a less honest person, I would steal this in a moment."

"Such a beautiful dagger should belong to a beautiful woman like yourself," Zevran agreed.

She sighed and carefully replaced the dagger in the stand. "I'd love to have it, but our recent trip to Denerim turned out to be a costly one." She touched the delicately carved rose on the crossguard and breathed another wistful sigh. "Maybe... maybe someday." She continued to look around the stall, pausing as a golden mirror caught her eye. It was a beautiful thing, with a scene of frolicking deer and sparrows on the back. "How much for this?" she asked the dwarf.

"Ah," Garin said with a slight giggle. "P-pretty, isn't it? Only ten silver. You won't find better in all of Orzammar."

Myranda nodded, digging into her money pouch for the coins. "I think I can part with ten silver."

"You don't really need a mirror, do you?" Alistair asked. "All you have to do is ask me and I can tell you how beautiful you are."

"It isn't for me," Myranda said with a slight smile. "It's a gift for someone else." She tucked the pretty thing into her belt and patted it. "I think she'll be pleased to see it." She walked over to him and tapped him on the nose. "And I think you can stop flattering me at this point," she said with a grin.

They found little else to purchase in the shop, though Myranda went back to the Rose's Thorn, handling it with a sigh before once again replacing it in its stand. The two Wardens parted company with their friends outside the shop, begging off for official business in the Diamond Quarter, promising to meet them back at Tapsters before going to the Proving.

Myranda, Alistair and Baby climbed the wide staircase to the Diamond Quarter: notable by the high-quality construction on the facades.

"So the closer you live to the surface, the higher class you are," Alistair noted. "Unless you're actually _on_ the surface."

"Higher classes being placed literally higher than the others, I suppose," Myranda noted.

"It just seems a bit... strange, somehow."

Baby barked.

"Glad someone agrees with me."

"Do you think the Shaperate would be near the palace?" Myranda asked.

"I think so... though how is it the dwarves have a king, I wonder? I thought they... voted on everything, or something like that?"

"Even the Landsmeet is called in Denerim for important decisions of State," Myranda noted. "I suppose for the dwarves it's just as if the Landsmeet was in session all the time—more convenient for them than for us."

"Maybe their king doesn't have as much power as ours?"

"That's possible." She pointed to a likely-looking building and they stepped inside.

The slightly musty-sweet smell of parchment immediately assaulted them, assuring them that they were in the right place. A few dwarves looked up at their entrance, and though they acknowledged them with raised eyebrows, none approached. This was left to an elderly dwarf who was at least ninety, with long white hair and a flowing white beard.

"Greetings, Wardens," he said as he approached them, taking their hands reverently in his own, gnarled ones before shaking them. "I am Czibor, the Shaper of Memories."

"A pleasure," Myranda said.

"Word travels fast," Alistair noted. "We only got here yesterday afternoon and now everyone knows we're here."

"Your Order is well known and respected amongst us," Czibor said. "Besides the fact that one of our apprentices saw you at the Assembly and mentioned your presence to me. I don't leave the Shaperate often."

"I don't know that your apprentice saw me at my best," Myranda said. "Certainly I didn't seem to make any friends in the Assembly."

"These are troubled times," the Shaper told her, turning and regarding the book-filled room with a frown on his ancient face. "The Memories often speak of the swiftness with which change overtakes us, but it is different to see it firsthand." He looked around. "The Shaperate guards Orzammar's knowledge. We have preserved in lyrium all of the records of dwarven history." He waved an arm to gesture to the countless shelves. "The Memories record all—they are how we know to which family a child owes life, how we trace lost thaigs. They ensure we forget nothing of our past, good or bad." He seemed to remember his guests then and turned back to them ruefully. "I apologize, Wardens. I should not burden strangers with such thoughts."

"There's no need to apologize," Myranda told him. "These are troubled times for all of us. But I would like to ask you about some things, Lord Shaper," she went on.

Czibor waved for them to follow him, leading them to a small, comfortable office. "Ask your questions, Warden, and I shall do my best to answer," he said, settling into his over-stuffed chair and waving them to two others, less plush but still comfortable. Baby, for his part, laid down between the two Grey Wardens' chairs.

"A simplistic question first: What's the difference between an ancestor and a Paragon?"

"All dwarves who die return to the Stone as ancestors," the ancient dwarf explained, "to guide their families forever. But only one every few generations rises to Paragon. A Paragon is a dwarf whose accomplishments change Orzammar so much that the Assembly recognizes they've been born blessed. They are venerated as living ancestors and found a new noble house forever bearing their name."

"And that's what Branka was?"

"Branka _is_ a Paragon," Czibor corrected, "now and into death. She was born a smith, but her inventions caught the Assembly's eye. Before she had seen twenty years, she created a smokeless coal. It could burn in a cave without vents and no one would choke from it. It earned her Paragon status."

Myranda blinked, but couldn't puzzle out part of the old man's statement. "She was _born_ a smith? Forgive me, but I don't think I understand."

"All dwarves are born into castes that determine what sort of opportunities they will encounter during their lives and how they are to be treated. One's caste is inherited from the same sex parent, so it is possible to change castes... though most do not associate with those too far below their caste."

"How did the caste system come to be?" Alistair asked.

The Shaper sat back in his chair, settling in for the story. "According to our legends," he began, "seven brothers founded our empire. The youngest, Bloadlikk, was the wisest and was chosen king. His children formed the Noble Caste. The eldest, Kiotshett, trained his sons to defend their king. They became the Warrior Caste. Shotkyar founded the artisans; Orzatyar forged our first swords. It was Orzammar who dug the mines that became our city's foundations."

Myranda and Alistair exchanged a look, the names going over their heads, but silently agreeing not to ask for clarification.

"The twins, Koapar and Knakkt both founded trading houses," Czibor went on, not seeing the look, "but Knakkt was wounded in battle. On his recovery, he swore to serve his brother's sons."

The blonde woman waited for the Shaper to continue, but he didn't. "And what about the casteless?" she asked.

The dwarf's eyes went hard and his features stony. "The casteless descend from criminals and those repudiated by their own families. Or who chose to go to the surface and live by human laws. They have no ancestors to guide them and no families to claim them." He waved a dismissive hand. "They should not have been born. Their parents defied their shame and brought cursed children into the world. It's better they die young."

Myranda saw how Alistair seemed to shrink back a little at this description and reached over to lay a hand over his wrist. "It seems easy for you to dismiss them," she said.

"Their births are not recorded in the Memories. In Orzammar, they do not exist." Czibor gave them a look indicating that the topic was closed to further discussion. "Is there something more pleasant you wish to discuss?"

"Tell me some of Orzammar's history," she requested, gently patting her lover's wrist.

The Shaper again settled back in his chair. "We were a great empire once, outnumbering even humans and elves. We traded with your Tevinter Imperium, and our lands stretched as far in the Deep Roads as theirs did above."

Myranda's eyebrows shot up as Alistair gave a low appreciative whistle.

"Kal Sharok was capital then." The elderly dwarf shook his head sadly. "But we lost too many battles, we lost our golems, and we lost our territory. Now, the empire is simply ruined tunnels filled with darkspawn."

"How did you lose your golems?" Alistair asked.

"The Paragon Caridin, a smith of unsurpassed genius, invented the golems. For years, they were our weapon against the darkspawn. One golem is worth a dozen dwarves in battle. But Caridin's thaig is far into the Deep Roads. When it fell, we lost his secret to creating golems." He waved to the bookshelves that lined the room. "There are books about it along these walls if you would read more."

"Thaig?" Myranda repeated the unfamiliar word uncertainly.

"They are to us what a colony is to surfacers."

Myranda absorbed this information for a few moments before deciding on her next question. "Can you tell me anything about Prince Bhelen?"

Czibor lifted his hand to run his fingers through his beard thoughtfully. "The prince consulted me before his father died," he said slowly. "He wanted to know about King Bemot, the last king to rule during a Blight. I told him Bemot made many changes during his rule. The Assembly was even disbanded for a two-year period. Bemot declared that, in times of war, the Warrior Caste answered directly to the king and all voting was suspended. Bhelen seemed quite interested." He sounded more puzzled than unnerved by this.

"Sounds like a friend of Loghain's," Alistair muttered.

"And Vartag Gavorn?" Myranda asked the Shaper.

"The Gavorn family is a minor one, founded when a daughter of the Forender House married down to a Warrior Caste man. Her brother died, leaving her father heirless, so the Assembly granted him a new family name and allowed him to adopt his daughter's children as heirs. Vartag Gavorn is on record asking the Assembly to bar Harrowmont from King Endrin's sickroom. He is a vocal supporter of Prince Bhelen."

Myranda pulled out the two notes that Vartag had given her earlier, looking at them pensively a moment. "The Shaperate keeps all the city's records..." she mused.

"Yes, that is correct."

"Could you look at these promissory papers for me?" she asked, handing them to the dwarf.

Czibor took them and placed them next to each other on the stone desk, retrieving a pair of spectacles from a drawer that magnified his eyes at least ten times. "These are Harrowmont lands promised here..." he said slowly as he looked from one to the other. Then, suddenly, he jerked his head back slightly in a gesture of surprise. "But these are not the deals we approved at the Shaperate."

Myranda's hand tightened around Alistair's wrist—the only indication of her fury.

The elderly dwarf looked up at her, looking very much like an owl. "Where did you get these?"

"Vartag Gavorn gave them to me," she said evenly.

"And he scripted these counterfeits?" The old man looked back at the papers before slowly shaking his head. "This is a serious crime," he said, removing the spectacles and folding them carefully before setting them on the desk. "I will have the Ministry of Lands begin an investigation into the Gavorns immediately."

Myranda leaned forward and tapped the notes. "These papers are forged." It was not a question.

"Not entirely," Czibor amended. "There were two promised deals, but their terms differed significantly from what is presented here. It appears the scripter altered the dates and locations of the agreements to make them identical."

"Thank you," Myranda said, standing and taking the promissory papers. "Now if you'll excuse me, I need to have words with someone."

The Shaper frowned up at her. "You are an outsider, Warden," he said, "but not outside the law. I hope you will not do anything to challenge the stability of Orzammar."

"I will do nothing that will disrupt the stability of the city," Myranda said, trying not to choke on the phrase, "or to disgrace the Order. Thank you for your time, Lord Shaper."

Alistair followed Myranda out of the building, surprised at how calm she appeared. She was furious—he knew that she had a great distaste for liars—yet there was no outward sign of it. Perhaps she was finally mastering her temper. He saw no sign of it at all until they were out of the Diamond Quarter, walking by the crevasse that dropped toward a flowing river of lava, when she crumpled the notes in her fist. "Myranda?"

"He lied to me," she said flatly. "On his lord's orders, I've no doubt." She shook her head, tossing the notes over the guard rail to flutter to the molten stone river below. "My mind's made up. That snake he represents will not be king while I breathe."


	32. Proving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Myranda fights in the Proving. FUN!

**Chapter 32: Proving**

_"Serious sport has nothing to do with fair play. It is bound up with hatred, jealousy, boastfulness, disregard of all rules and sadistic pleasure in witnessing violence. In other words, it is war minus the shooting." George Orwell_

 

The Proving arena's underbelly, where last-minute registrations were taking place, was a buzz of activity. It wasn't hard to tell where the center of it was, however, and Myranda made straight for the burly dwarf seated behind a massive stone table that was littered with papers.

"Good day, strangers," he said, looking up at her and Alistair. "Welcome to the Proving arena. We're still closed until the fighters make their preparations, but come back this afternoon if you want to watch the show."

"Show, indeed," Myranda said.

Baby barked.

"Prince Bhelen called a city-wide Proving this afternoon to honor King Endrin's memory," the Proving Master told her. "All the best fighters in Orzammar will face each other in sight of the ancestors and win honor for their champions. Whoever wins receives _valos atredum_ , the ancestors' blessing. Whoever loses is deemed unworthy. All judgments in the ring are final."

"Is registration closed yet?"

"No, not yet. Registration doesn't close until the Proving actually begins." The Proving Master eyed her more closely then, then blinked as a thought suddenly occurred to him. "Blessed Stone, you're the Grey Warden! Are you going to join the fights?"

"I'm actually looking for two fighters who withdrew yesterday. Baizyl and... what was the other one?" she asked, turning to Alistair.

"Gwiddon?" he said uncertainly.

"Yes, I think that was it."

"Those two fighters have withdrawn, yes," the Proving Master said, checking his rosters. "Gwiddon just a few moments ago confirmed his resignation." He looked up and pointed. "That's him," he said, pointing to a red-haired dwarf who was strapping a large, two-handed sword to his back.

"Excuse me," Myranda said to the Proving Master, trotting away and over to the other dwarf. "Gwiddon?"

Gwiddon looked up at the sound of his name, then up into Myranda's face. "You new in the fights?" he asked. "I don't remember seeing you before."

"You could say that, yes."

"Something I can do for you?" he asked, his stormy blue eyes glancing over at Alistair when he walked over to join them.

"You're one of the fighters," Myranda said. "For Harrowmont."

"Was," the dwarf corrected her. "I just tendered my resignation. Somehow, I don't think the ancestors will favor me today."

"Why did you resign?" she asked.

Gwiddon sighed. "It's not so much what happened as what's going to. I heard from a reliable source Lord Harrowmont's already given up the throne. Bhelen called this whole Proving to let his Lordship save face when he concedes."

Myranda and Alistair exchanged puzzled looks and Baby whined in confusion. "Harrowmont isn't conceding," the blonde woman said.

"Oh?" The dwarf looked up at her, a challenge in his eyes. "And where did you hear this that's more reliable than a member of the Assembly?"

"Dulin Forender."

The blue-grey eyes blinked with astonishment. "I... I suppose there's nothing his Lordship would do without consulting Dulin. He's always been his top man." He seemed to consider this a moment longer. "Maybe you're right," he said finally. "I-I'm just a warrior. I've always tried to stay out of these noble politics..." his voice trailed off and his hands curled into fists with his growing anger and indignation. "If I find out this whole thing was some flunky of Bhelen's lying to me for his own gain, I'll... I'll..."

"Get back in the Proving and knock some heads?" Myranda offered.

Gwiddon looked back up at her. "Maybe I will at that!" he said, causing Baby to bark with approval. "Good luck to you in the fights," he said, stepping around her and striding purposefully back toward the Proving Master.

Myranda laughed softly. "One down," she said.

"The Proving Master said Baizyl would be in one of the chambers down that hallway," Alistair said, pointing.

"Thank you, dearest."

They wandered down the dark hall, making inquiries before seeing a harried-looking young man exiting one of the rooms near the end of the corridor.

"Baizyl?" Myranda asked.

The dwarf's looked up at her, looking startled then annoyed. "Look. I already told the Proving Master I withdrew. Do you have to keep harassing me?"

"What are you _talking_ about?" Alistair asked, sounding as confused by the dwarf's sudden anger as Myranda felt.

"That sounded genuine." Baizyl's dark eyes flitted back and forth as he looked around nervously. "Um, if you weren't looking for me, do me a favor and pretend I never said anything."

"Did someone make you drop out of the Proving?" Myranda asked.

"I left the Proving on my own business," he told her testily, "and I've no intention of discussing it."

"If you tell me what's happening, I could help you," she tried again.

Baizyl sighed. "Look, it's just..." his voice trailed off and he looked down the hallway behind them. "Come in," he said, re-entering the room behind him. When the two humans had ducked inside, he pushed the door mostly closed, leaving open just enough that he could see if anyone was listening in. "When I was younger," he explained, "I had a thing with this Aeducan girl: Revelka. Lesser cousin," he said, waving a hand when the blonde woman lifted an eyebrow at the surname, "nowhere near the throne. Her family wanted her marrying up, so they matched her with a Bemot. But... we didn't exactly stop seeing each other."

Myranda nodded understandingly. "And now Bhelen's found out?"

The dwarf looked uncomfortable, running a hand back through his short black hair. "I thought we were discreet but...." He shook his head. "She's married to a deshyr's heir. He'd _kill_ me if he knew. So _I_ have to slink out of here like some worthless _brand_ for fear Bhelen will tell the whole city."

"Forgery _and_ blackmail!" Alistair said with sarcastic glee. "It just keeps getting better, doesn't it?"

Myranda smirked at him. "What evidence does Bhelen have?" she asked, turning back to the dwarf.

"They have letters—love letters Revelka wrote me. If they were made public, she'd be disgraced." He shook his head again, sadly. "Her husband would cast her aside. And I would be lucky to be allowed to die in a duel."

"Would you fight again if your secret was safe?"

"There's no way to guarantee that," Baizyl said glumly. "I appreciate the thought, but they really have me over a shaft, here."

"Let me get those letters back for you."

Baizyl stared at her in shock. "You'd... do that? I don't know how to thank you... I know it's my own fault, but I'd have married her if I could."

"Where are they?" Myranda asked.

"Bhelen's fighter Myaja has the letters... in her ready room if not on her person."

"And where is her ready room?"

"The hallway opposite this one... third door on the right. If you make sure she never shows those letters to anyone, I'll fight for Harrowmont again. But you need to find them quickly—registrations close once the first bout starts."

"How long do we have?"

"Not quite an hour, I think."

"Plenty of time," Myranda said, heading for the door. "I'll be back soon."

She walked down the equally dark hallway on the other side of the common area to the door Baizyl had indicated, listening at the door for a minute before kneeling in front of it. "Keep a lookout," she told Alistair as she set to picking the lock.

"Hurry," he said, his heart pounding softly as he glanced nervously back toward the common area. He heard a soft click a moment later and looked back to see Myranda had the door open.

The three slipped inside and Myranda turned, closing the door and locking it again behind her.

"Why did you lock it back?"

"If she comes back while we're in here, she'd know someone was here if the door was open," Myranda said, looking around the room. "Now, if I was a blackmailer's accomplice, where would I hide those letters?"

"I'd probably keep them locked up."

Myranda nodded, then, suddenly, pushed him into the dark corner behind the door, cupping her hand over his mouth as Baby managed to crawl on his belly under the low bed.

Alistair didn't have time to wonder about her strange behavior before he heard a key scraping in the lock. He froze, not even daring to breathe as the door opened and a young woman walked in.

"...just a second," she was saying.

"You're going to wear out the lock on that chest, Myaja," another voice—a man's—said.

"I'm not checking on the letters," Myaja's voice retorted as a cabinet door creaked open.

"The paper's going to wear thin from your handling them."

"I saw you reading them last night," The cabinet door shut again.

Myranda wrinkled her nose in disgust. Of all the sick, perverted...

The man's voice chuckled. "I'll admit, I never knew Revelka had such a dirty mind. All those things she described...."

"Be careful, Lucjan. I can see you getting excited remembering." There was a grin in the dwarf woman's voice.

"We're right here near Dust Town," Lucjan said suggestively, taking a few steps into the room. "Should I go get Natia?"

Myranda's eyes widened and Alistair looked more nervous than before.

"No. We don't have time."

"We have time before the first round." There was a pause. "Come on. Let me go get her and we'll have some fun."

"No. I'll be all worn out. And you won't be worth anything, either."

Lucjan sighed then. "Fine."

The Grey Wardens fought against the urge to collapse or breathe a huge sigh of relief.

"But I'm going to her later."

"Fine." Myaja's footsteps walked back toward the door. "Let's go."

The door closed behind the two dwarves, revealing the Grey Wardens to the room again, and the key scraped back in the lock.

The two humans didn't move for a full minute after the footsteps faded back down the hall before Myranda finally released her sigh of relief, taking her hand from Alistair's mouth.

"Maker's breath," he swore softly.

"I agree. That was close... _too_ close."

Baby whined in agreement as he wriggled out from under the bed.

Myranda made her way to the large chest at the other side of the room and quickly set to picking the lock while Alistair stayed at the door, listening for the dwarves' return. Ten nerve-racking minutes passed before the chest's lock opened with a loud click, and Myranda nearly tore the lock off before throwing open the chest's lid.

There wasn't much inside, though the contents varied greatly. The letters appeared to be bundled together, tied with a black ribbon. Everything else she wasn't sure she wanted to know about... especially the leather harness with the.... She blinked. Did Myaja use that to...? She pulled out the packet of letters, being careful not to touch anything else, and slammed the lid of the trunk closed again, startling Alistair at the door.

"Andraste's mercy!"

"Sorry," she said, replacing the lock and snapping it shut. "I think that trunk holds one of Zevran's wildest dreams." She looked up at him to see the question in his eyes. "You don't want to know," she said as she stuffed the letters between her shirt and leather chestplate.

"Right."

They let themselves out of the room after making sure the hallway was clear, striding casually back into the common area. They loitered there a few moments before catching Baizyl's eye. He looked at them a moment before turning to walk down the hallway toward his chamber. A minute later, Baby went after him, followed by the two Grey Wardens. They stepped into the room and the door was pushed shut behind them.

"The Proving's almost starting," Baizyl said. "I should leave if you haven't found anything."

"I have your letters right here," Myranda said. She turned away and pulled out the letters before turning to hand them to him.

Baizyl's dark eyes widened in shock. "Where did you get those?" he asked. Then he immediately started to stammer. "No, no, no, no, I-I don't want to know."

"You really don't," Myranda said.

"Just... thank you." He took the packet as if it was made of the finest crystal. "I can't say what it means to know my Revelka is safe."

"Then you'll fight in the Proving?" Alistair asked.

The dwarf nodded. "I will be glad to fight for Harrowmont in the Provings." He looked at the packet in his hands again then back up at Myranda. "Thank you again, friend."

"I'd keep those in a safe place," the blonde woman advised.

"Yes. Yes, I'm not letting these letters out of my sight again."

The two humans and the mabari took their leave then, heading back out to the common area.

"Now to sign up," Myranda said, rubbing her hands together.

"I don't know about this," Alistair said.

"Don't worry. I'm sure it will be fine."

The Proving Master looked up as they approached. "Ah, you're back. How can I help you Wardens?"

"I'd like to hear more about who's fighting," Myranda said.

"Well, with politics what they are, many combatants are dedicating their fights to either Prince Bhelen or Lord Harrowmont. Mostly Bhelen."

"Of course."

"It's a regular parade of past winners out there," the Proving Master told her. "Piotin Aeducan always leads a battle unit; he's the prince's cousin. Myaja and Lucjan are twins from the Warrior Caste. They fight together, put on a good show."

Myranda and Alistair exchanged a look at this insight into exactly who Myaja and Lucjan were. "I'd like to fight as Lord Harrowmont's champion," Myranda said, turning back to the dwarf.

He blinked in shock. "Well, that's a surprise. Never thought Grey Wardens would take an interest in our king."

"I haven't been given much of a choice," she muttered.

"Let me just put you into the schedule, here..." his voice trailed off as he shuffled through the papers. Finding the one he wanted, he pulled it toward him, uncorking a bottle of ink and picking up his pen. "Now, is there a particular name you wish listed?"

"I am Myranda, of the Grey Wardens."

The Proving Master paused, then started to scribble. "We'll just call you 'Grey Warden,' seeing as those human names are a real burr to pronounce."

Myranda rolled her eyes.

"We actually have an opening in the first round."

"Excellent. Who will I be fighting?"

The Proving Master ran his finger along the lines on the schedule. "Looks like Seweryn's drawn first bout." He looked up at the blonde woman. "He was one of the youngest champions ever. Beat his own father at twelve years old. All for the right to earn his battle status two years early."

"What are the rules of the Proving?"

"Fights start at the gong and go to first blood. No eye-gouging, no groin pulls. The rules of each bout will be announced when it starts. You should be comfortable with normal weapons and lyrium-enhanced weapons, in single-combat, pairs, or battle units."

"Battle units?"

"Teams of four warriors."

"Do I need to register those members ahead of time?"

"Give me their names," he said, pushing a spare sheet of parchment towards her and handing over the pen. "If they're in the stands, we'll send a boy up to fetch them before your fight."

Myranda quickly wrote down Alistair's, Zevran's, and Leliana's names before pausing. "I suppose Wynne wouldn't be able to help much," she said, looking up at Alistair, "since dwarves are immune to magic."

"I guess not."

"All right," she said, handing the pen and parchment back to the Proving Master. "I'm ready."

"That's what I like to hear," the older man said with a nod of approval. "I will warn you, though: This is your last chance to make preparations or meet the competition. Once the fights begin, there are no new additions to the roster. All withdrawals are treated as losses and a sign of the ancestors' disfavor."

"Don't worry," Myranda said, cracking her knuckles. "I won't be withdrawing."

"Very well. I'll call for you when we're ready."

"I don't know about this," Alistair said again as Myranda steered him away from the registration table.

"Don't worry, my love, I'll be fine." She smiled at him. "As long as they don't fight with a giant spider, I won't be running out of the ring screaming and shaming the Grey Wardens' name."

He still looked unconvinced.

"Besides," she murmured with a grin, "my arms and legs are longer than all my opponents'. The rules state that we fight to first blood, so I shouldn't have too much trouble."

"Just... promise me you'll be careful."

"Stop worrying! I'll be all right." She tapped him playfully on the nose. "You and Baby go up to the stands and enjoy the fights."

Baby hopped in a circle and barked.

"I'll watch," Alistair said, "but I won't enjoy it. Not as long as you're in the ring and in danger."

"I'll be careful," she said, kissing him softly. "I promise."

"Warden!" the Proving Master called. "Go ahead down to the ring. I'll be right there."

"On my way," she called. "Go on," she said to Alistair, giving him a gentle shove toward the door. "I'll look for you in the stands."

 

 

Alistair had no trouble finding Leliana, Wynne and Zevran in the crowd—mostly through Leliana waving her hand furiously over her head at him—and made his way toward them. They had found seats near the edge of the ring... good seats for anyone who didn't know one of the fighters.

"We saved you a seat," Leliana told him before looking around. "Where's Myranda?"

He frowned, looking down into the ring and pointed as Myranda strode out toward the center of the space.

"Goodness!" Wynne said. "What is she doing?"

"She entered the Proving," Alistair told her, sitting heavily.

Zevran grinned, sliding down to sit next to the other man. "I wouldn't worry, my friend," he said. "Your Myranda is quite skilled... and is on her way to being an excellent assassin. I've no doubt she will do well."

Baby barked in agreement.

Further conversation was cut off by the Proving Master's voice, echoing through the arena.

"This is a Glory Proving, fought under the eyes of the Paragons of Orzammar to honor the memory of King Endrin. First up is Seweryn of the Warrior Caste. Many of your remember when Seweryn made history as a lad of twelve by defeating his own father in this very ring. Today he fights as a champion for Prince Bhelen."

The crowd applauded in acknowledgement, a few whistling and cheering. The young man waved to the crowd.

"Opposing him in Lord Harrowmont's name is a member of the famed Grey Wardens!"

This time the crowd surged with excitement as it applauded, and Myranda noted with some amusement how her opponent's eyes widened with shock.

Seweryn eyed Myranda carefully. "In the name of House Aeducan," he called, not sounding very confident, "and our future King Bhelen!"

"For the glory of Lord Harrowmont!" Myranda replied, eliciting a few cheers from the crowd.

The Proving Master's voice again echoed through the ring. "First warrior to receive first blood is vanquished. Fight!"

The sound of a gong reverberated through the ring. As if on cue, Seweryn charged toward Myranda, sword held high. Myranda waited, then stepped out of the way at the last minute, bringing the pommel of her sword down hard on the back of the young man's head, sending him sprawling to the ground. He got to his feet quickly, whirling on her and spitting sand.

"Warden or no," he said, readying his sword, "I will defeat you in honor of Prince Bhelen!"

"This is a Proving," Myranda said. "You're going to have to prove it."

The fight went quickly, Myranda knocking the sword from the young man's hands to disarm him before slicing the point of her sword down across the back of his hand—too shallow to do any harm, but deep enough to draw blood.

"The winner is the Grey Warden!" the Proving Master's voice called.

Alistair sat back in his seat as the crowd cheered around him.

"She made that look easy," Leliana said.

"I just hope she doesn't grow reckless," Wynne said.

Meanwhile, behind the ring, the Proving Master approached Myranda.

"That was an exciting start, Warden," he told her. "Seweryn is rarely trounced... and so thoroughly!"

"Thank you."

"There is one round before your next fight, so be ready."

"I will."

"Warden?"

Myranda turned to face her once-opponent.

"I was honored to fight with you," Seweryn said with a bow. "I find no shame in defeat at your hands."

"There is no shame in defeat, young ser," Myranda said.

"I offer myself as a recruit into your Order."

She smiled a little and laid her hand on his shoulder. "When all this is over," she said, "I will consider you as a recruit."

"Thank you, Warden. Now, please excuse me, I must prepare for my next fight." He bowed again before walking away.

Myranda smiled a little, marveling at how polite the dwarven young man had been. She looked up as a cheer rose from the crowd and looked over to find the Proving Master descending back toward the common area. She strode back toward the older dwarf, who looked up as she approached.

"Ah, Warden. Are you ready for your next opponent?"

"Who is my next opponent?"

He checked his roster. "Next you're up against Myaja and Lucjan. As twins, they've always been allowed to fight as a single person."

" _What_?!" She sighed in aggravation when the Proving Master raised an eyebrow at her. "All right, all right. Twins. Two bodies, one heart and mind. Got it. Anything I should know?"

"They're Warrior Caste, but their mother was a smith, so watch out for Myaja's hammer. And don't forget Lucjan. Most fighters do... and end up with his knife in their spine."

"Got it."

"Are you ready to begin?"

She smirked. "Just point me to the ring."

"All right, then," he said, waving her ahead. "I'll see you out there."

 

In the stands, Alistair watched Myranda stride out into the ring followed by two dwarves: one male, one female, both with short, light brown hair. His nerves grew weaker as he waited for Myranda's partner to appear... and one never did. They wouldn't set two against one, would they? His stomach further tied itself into knots as the Proving Master's voice reverberated around the arena.

"This is a Glory Proving, fought under the eyes of the Paragons of Orzammar to honor the memory of King Endrin."

"Wait," Leliana said. "Two against one?"

"This round," the Proving Master was saying, "the Warden takes on the notorious duo, the Warrior Caste's twin terrors, now fighting for Prince Bhelen—Myaja and Lucjan!"

In the ring, Myaja nodded respectfully to Myranda, a nod that was returned. "May the Stone honor you," she said.

Her twin smirked then. "...When you fall," he added.

Myranda met Lucjan's smirk with one of her own. "Sure, and may the dirt taste good when I feed it to you."

"First warrior to receive first blood is vanquished. Fight!"

At the gong, the twins separated to attack Myranda from two sides. She blocked both attacks easily, parrying every blow from the twins. She ducked under a vicious swing from Myaja, grabbing a handful of sand before throwing it in Lucjan's face. The dwarf rogue cursed and backed away, trying to blink the sand from his eyes. Myranda smirked, turning in time to see Myaja's hammer sailing through the air. It landed in the sand with a mighty thud, creating a massive cloud of dust that obscured everything.

When the dust cleared, Myranda had vanished.

"Where is she?" Alistair asked frantically. "I don't see her!"

Zevran chuckled darkly. "Ah, that's my girl." He leaned toward Alistair and pointed. "Do you see that shadow by the entrance there?"

Alistair looked, squinting, but saw nothing but darkness... until she moved, creeping toward her confused foes. He wouldn't have seen her at all if Zevran hadn't pointed out precisely where she was.

Myaja and Lucjan looked at each other and shrugged. "Noble deshyrs!" Myaja called over the confused murmuring of the crowd, pounding the end of her hammer shaft into the sand. "It appears our opponent—the mighty Grey Warden—has fled the ring!"

The crowd laughed.

"Perhaps you should name us the winners!" She looked over at her twin brother when he suddenly collapsed to the floor of the ring, covered in wounds that were not incredibly deep, but bled profusely. "Lucjan!"

The heavy metal head of her war hammer was then suddenly sliced off its handle, nearly falling on the confused warrior. She started to lift the heavy shaft to use that as a weapon, but this was sliced in half and rendered useless by the Grey Warden who suddenly appeared in front of her, holding the point of her sword to her neck.

"First blood," Myranda said, putting just enough pressure on her sword to cause a drop of blood to run down the other woman's neck.

"The winner is the Grey Warden!" the Proving Master called.

The crowd paused in stunned surprise, then erupted in louder cheers than before.

"Well done, Warden," Myaja said, backing away from the other woman's sword.

"Yes," Lucjan agreed, getting to his feet slowly. "I daresay I've learned a few things this day."

Myranda followed the twins from the ring before being met by the Proving Master.

"Well, that was an exciting bout. Two on one and you took them both easily."

"I've fought four dragonlings at once... it wasn't so bad."

"Your next fight takes place immediately. Are you ready for your next opponent?"

She shrugged. "Ready or not. Who is my next opponent?"

The Proving Master checked the roster quickly. "Well, this bout should be quick and dirty. You'll be fighting Hanashan, one of the legendary Silent Sisters." He looked back up at the human woman. "She's a ferocious fighter and dedicated enough to cut out her own tongue."

Myranda nodded. "All right. Let's get this over with."

 

"This is a Glory Proving," the Proving Master's voice carried through the arena again, "fought under the eyes of the Paragons of Orzammar to honor the memory of King Endrin. Harrowmont's champion cleared the Stone. But can she hold out against the Paragons' own favorites, the Silent Sisters? We'll find out as the Warden faces Lady Hanashan, who proved her worth to Paragon Astyth the Grey by cutting out her own tongue. And to our Prince Bhelen by fighting in his name."

Myranda lifted an eyebrow. "Is self-mutilation supposed to frighten me?"

Hanashan, naturally, said nothing to this.

"First warrior to receive first blood is vanquished. Fight!"

The gong sounded and, as the Proving Master had anticipated, the fight was a quick one. The result, however, was the same.

"The winner is the Grey Warden!"

Myranda looked around at the cheering crowd of dwarves, a strange grin crossing her face. She held up her sword in triumph and the volume of the cheers rose. She laughed. Oh, she could get used to this!

In the stands, Leliana leaned toward Alistair. "I think she's starting to enjoy this a little too much," she shouted over the din.

"I think you're right."

Myranda made her way out of the ring, waving at the other fighters when they applauded her.

"Harrowmont will be pleased, Warden," Baizyl said to her. "The Silent Sisters' support was a great boost for Bhelen."

The Proving Master came down and called two more fighters, who entered the ring, then left again to announce them.

"You have some time before your next opponent," Baizyl said to her. "Here, have a drink."

"Thank you," she said, taking the mug from him and drinking deeply. The cool water had a bitter tang to it, and she knew it had alcohol in it. "Do you know who my next opponent is?"

"You'll battle Wojech Ivo, master of all weapons, prisoner of none. He makes it a point never to use the same technique twice."

"Ah, an adventure."

"It should be a good battle. Wojech specializes in a pairs competition, though, so you'll need a second."

She looked at him after taking another swallow from the ale-tinged water. "How are you doing in the fights?"

He shrugged modestly. "Not nearly as well as you, I'll say that."

The two fighters returned from the ring, followed by the Proving Master, who called two others and retreated again.

"Well, if I need a second, how about joining me for the next fight?"

Baizyl smiled a little. "I'd be honored," he told her.

"Good. Now, tell me about this opponent. Is there a weapon he prefers? A style he uses more than others?"

She listened carefully to the young dwarf's analysis of Wojech and his second, Velanz, until the Proving Master returned to the common area.

"Warden, you're next... fighting Wojech Ivo. Have you a second?"

"I have," she said, standing and placing a hand on Baizyl's shoulder.

"Very good. I'll see you in the ring."

Myranda followed the Proving Master out of the area, waving for Baizyl to follow. The four combatants met at the center of the ring. Wojech Ivo was heavily armored and carried a massive two-handed sword, while his second sported two wicked-looking knives.

"This is a Glory Proving, fought under the eyes of the Paragons of Orzammar to honor the memory of King Endrin. This round is paired combat. Just as Kiotshett fought as King Bloadlikk's second defending our empire, so have dwarves always fought alongside a second. Master of all weapons, prisoner of none, Wojech Ivo has never won the same way twice. What will he do today, lords and ladies, and will it win the day for Prince Bhelen?" The Proving Master looked down at Myranda. "Grey Warden, choose your second, for you face Wojech Ivo and Velanz."

"In support of Harrowmont," Myranda called back, "I choose Baizyl as my second."

The crowd cheered and the Proving Master nodded. "Last one standing will be declared victor! Fight!"

"Take Velanz," she called to Baizyl as the gong sounded, heading straight for Wojech herself. The battle was hard, but she simply imagined the heavily-armored dwarf as a much shorter version of Sten, and that made the going easier. A ringing blow to the helmet had the dwarven warrior stumbling away just as the crowd let out a sympathetically painful "Ooh." She turned to see Baizyl had a wicked gash in his side and Velanz was darting toward her. She blocked his attack easily, and smelled something bitter under the acrid stench of blood.

"So it's poison," she said, the dwarf rogue's grin giving her all the answer she needed. She backed up as he flicked the poisoned blade across his body in front of him, blocking it before he could swing it again and stepping in quickly, jamming her knee up into her opponent's chin. The crowd let out another painful moan as Myranda barely dodged another vicious attack from Wojech. She dodged and parried, finally ducking behind the powerful dwarf and bringing the pommel of her sword into the back of his helmet hard, stunning him and sending him to his knees as she danced out of striking range.

"The winners are Baizyl and the Grey Warden!" the Proving Master announced.

The crowd cheered louder than before and several dwarves rushed into the ring to carry or help the injured out.

Myranda pointed her sword toward her companions, a proud grin on her face. Leliana grinned and waved and the blonde woman lifted her sword in acknowledgment of it before turning and striding from the ring. The Proving Master was waiting for her.

"Wojech Ivo is one of the best this arena has seen, Warden," he told her. "Harrowmont picked wisely."

"Who is my next opponent?" she asked.

"The next round is the championship round: a full squad-on-squad combat. Piotin Aeducan leads the same team he's taken to victory in over a dozen Deep Roads expeditions."

"So he can kill darkspawn." She smiled darkly. "I've done a bit of that myself." She frowned. "Do I have time to gather my team?"

"There is one fight before yours, but move quickly. I don't foresee the battle taking too long."

"I'll be right back," she said as she raced from the common area and up the stairs toward the stands. Several of the spectators turned and stared at her as she made her way to where Alistair and the others were seated. A smile crossed her lips as Baby saw her and barked happily. Alistair turned then and immediately stood.

"Well," Zevran said, looking up at her with a smirk. "If it isn't our brilliant champion."

"Myranda!" Leliana said with delighted surprise. "What are you doing here?"

Myranda smirked at Zevran, placing a hand on his shoulder and leaning in front of him to kiss Alistair quickly before reaching out her other hand to Leliana. "The last fight is a four-on-four squadron fight. Will you three join me?"

"You have to ask?" Alistair said.

"Of course!" Leliana said. "It's looked like fun."

"Naturally," Zevran agreed.

"Thank you," she said. She looked around at Wynne. "Having a good time?" she called.

The older woman smiled. "It's been quite interesting, though I thank you for not asking me to participate. I don't think my nerves could take it."

"Keep an eye on Baby, would you?" She looked at the dog. "Stay with Wynne," she told him.

Baby barked and moved down to sit next to the mage, who patted his head.

The party went quickly back down to the common area, where Myranda briefed them on the rules. She had barely finished when the Proving Master called for her.

"Are you ready to face the final test?" he asked.

"Ready to win the title."

The Proving Master nodded. "May the ancestors choose wisely," he said, preceding her back toward the ring.

Myranda led the group up to the ring, facing off against the group of four dwarves.

"This is a Glory Proving," the Proving Master declared again, "fought under the eyes of the Paragons of Orzammar to honor the memory of King Endrin. Only two warriors remain. Fighting for his royal cousin Bhelen, Piotin Aeducan has led his team to triumph over every unit so far." He paused as the crowd cheered loudly. "Challenging him on behalf of Lord Harrowmont, the Grey Warden has risen from nothing to stand at the competition's summit." The pause was longer as the crowd cheered again, louder. "Each will lead a full unit of four soldiers, to see once and for all whom the ancestors favor."

Piotin regarded Myranda with an air of looking down his nose at her. "You fight well," he said, "but your judgment is questionable. The throne will never leave house Aeducan."

"Shut up and fight," she retorted.

"Last one standing will be declared victor!" the Proving Master called. "Fight!"

The gong had barely sounded before the two teams had clashed. Piotin's squadron fought well, but against two Grey Wardens, an Orlesian bard, and an Antivan Crow, they never stood a chance.

"The winner is the Grey Warden!" the Proving Master declared when Piotin's team was lying on the ground injured or knocked out.

The crowd exploded.

"Congratulations," the Proving Master called over the din. "You defeated the man Prince Trian himself once called 'the horns of my army.'" He addressed the crowd then. "Do any deny this Grey Warden has earned the championship?"

The cheers lessened, but the noise that remained was of approval.

"Then it is my honor to declare this Grey Warden champion of the Proving, who has shown that the ancestors favor Lord Harrowmont!"

The crowd cheered again, and Myranda lifted her sword in acknowledgment of them. "May the Assembly heed the will of their ancestors!" she called.

"The ancestors speak through you. Congratulations, Warden."

 

 

Myranda sighed as she lay in bed that night, her whole body aching a little from the beating it had taken in the Proving. She smiled a little as Alistair wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her back against him and burying his nose into her hair, nuzzling her. "What's troubling you, my love?" she murmured.

"I'm glad we don't live here," he said. "I couldn't watch you go into the Proving over and over."

"I don't think nobles usually participate. I'm just lucky." She laid her hand over his as he pulled her tighter against him, running her thumb gently back and forth across his skin. "No secrets," she whispered. "What's really bothering you?"

"I wouldn't have had a chance."

"When?"

"If we lived here..." his voice trailed off as he nuzzled her. "If our society was set up like the dwarves', I'd be a nobody. Casteless. I never would have had a chance to love you." He kissed the back of her neck softly. "I'm so lucky our society doesn't work that way," he whispered.

Myranda smiled. "You wouldn't be casteless, my darling." She rolled over to look at him, lifting her hand to trail her fingertips along his face. "Remember? The Shaper told us that caste is inherited through the same sex parent... and your father was a noble—a king." She leaned her forehead against his. "We'd both be nobles then... and you would have won me anyway, my prince."

A relieved smile crossed Alistair's lips then.

"You have to stop thinking that you're unworthy of me, Alistair. If either of us doesn't deserve the other, _I_ don't deserve _you_."

"You know I don't believe that."

She smiled a little at him. "It doesn't matter," she murmured. "In any situation we are perfectly matched. Even if we had never met... if you were king and I had survived Howe's treachery—or if it had never happened—I would be put forward as the best match for you."

"After Anora?" he teased gently.

Myranda pursed her lips against the slight surge of jealousy that rushed through her. " _Before_ Anora. Highever is ranked higher than Gwaren... of which, stripped of her rank as queen, she would be teyrn." She allowed a grin to return to her lips. "Besides, I'm prettier than she is."

Alistair chuckled. "And more agreeable." He lifted his hand to her face, brushing his thumb over her cheek. "I am so lucky to have you, Myranda," he breathed.

"There's no one else I'd rather have," she murmured. "I love you, Alistair."

He kissed her then, losing himself in her. The kiss lasted several long minutes before he allowed her to pull away gently. "You know," he murmured, "it was interesting to see you using the techniques Zevran's been teaching you."

Her eyes lit up. "It was so much fun!" she said. "I don't think _anyone_ saw me during that second round when I melted into the shadows."

"Zevran did. I wouldn't have known you were there if he hadn't pointed it out... and even then I didn't see you until you moved."

"I'll have to keep working on that, then," she said. "He told me when I could successfully 'assassinate' him, I'd be an assassin even the Crows would be proud of."

"I wasn't sure about you learning to be an assassin, you know," he said, "but I guess now I'm glad you know the tricks."

"I asked Leliana to teach me to be a bard, too."

"You did?"

She nodded. "She had to give up on me. I can't sing. But she did teach me some of the fighting techniques."

Alistair smirked at her then. "You know, I've heard about the Orlesian bards."

"Who hasn't?" she said, grinning at the suggestion in his voice. "They're quite famous, after all."

"The stories I heard were a little... _racier_ ," he said with a wicked gleam in his eye. "It had to do with how a bard assassinated her target. How they were... _lulled_ into _complacency_."

Myranda giggled as his hands teased over her skin before rolling over so that her back was to him again. "If those stories were true, who would ever agree to entertain a bard in their court?" she asked reasonably.

"Oh, I don't know..." he said, pulling her against him. "There's a certain allure to danger, isn't there?" He slid his hands slowly over her body, kissing her neck. "And besides, they couldn't all be assassins, could they? With you, I'd take my chances." He kissed her behind her ear, causing her to shudder as he traced his fingertips over the swell of her breast. "If the stories were true, that is."

"Leliana said they had rules about that sort of thing. Strict rules."

"Such as?" He waited through the long pause that followed for her to explain. "You're not going to tell me, are you?" he said finally, sounding hurt.

Myranda giggled, snuggling back against him. "Good night, darling."

"Tell me?" he murmured teasingly into her ear. "Please?"

She giggled and wrapped her leg back around his as his hand slid between her thighs, cupping her gently. "You're terrible," she said. "Go to sleep."

"Do I get a kiss good night?"

Myranda grinned, turning her shoulders a little to look back at him as he leaned over her to kiss her deeply. She moaned softly as his tongue parted her lips to dive into her mouth, reining in her lust as she pulled slowly away. "Good night," she whispered.

Alistair grinned and snuggled in behind her, taking his hand from between her legs and wrapping it gently around her waist again. "Good night, my dear," he murmured.


	33. The Runaround

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Myranda finally meets with Lord Harrowmont and is given a bit of the runaround. There's always something else.....

**Chapter 33: The Runaround**

_"Laughter and tears are both responses to frustration and exhaustion." ~Kurt Vonnegut_

 

Myranda descended the stairs to the tavern's common room late the next morning dressed only in Alistair's shirt—which came down to just above her knees and hung loosely on her slimmer frame—that she had belted around her waist, grinning complacently. Her whole body hurt, but she didn't care; she felt absolutely revitalized. Alistair's playfulness from the previous night had not gone away... if anything, he had been more insistent this morning, waking her slowly with teasing kisses and soft touches. What had followed had been incredibly fun and exciting and quite possibly the best sex they'd ever had. They'd even managed some of the positions they had tried while drunk—they were better when they were sober.

She leaned casually on the bar as she greeted Corra, requesting something light and not terribly alcoholic. She dreamily traced odd patterns on the bartop until the dwarf woman returned, handing her a tall, thin glass with a brilliant and intense golden yellow bubbling liquid inside that smelled deliciously of dried fruit and had a round, full-bodied taste that wasn't overly sweet. She giggled as the bubbles tickled her nose and throat before asking her hostess about it, only to find out it was a sparkling wine they had received from Orlais. She was about to ask for a bottle to take back upstairs for her and Alistair to enjoy as they enjoyed each other some more when another voice broke through her romantic haze.

" _Atrast vala_ , Champion."

Myranda looked over to find Dulin Forender walking toward her. "Good morning, ser," she said.

"I hear your performance in the Proving yesterday was nothing short of amazing!"

Myranda smirked. Her performance outside the Proving ring had been pretty amazing, too, but she wasn't about to tell _him_ that.

"I must thank you for bringing both Baizyl and Gwiddon back into the fights. His Lordship was touched to see his old friends stand for him." He saw the Grey Warden's eyebrow lift in patient expectancy, waiting for him to get to the point. "There can no longer be any doubt where your sympathies lie. If you're ready, Lord Harrowmont will see you now. He is looking forward to meeting you."

"Excellent." She looked down at her state of dress—or slight undress—and sighed. "Allow me to go change into something a little more suitable."

"Of course."

She finished the glass of sparkling wine before returning back up the stairs with an unhappy sigh. She had been looking forward to having a little more time in bed, but politics had once again intruded. At least now, perhaps, some progress could be made.

When she let herself back into her room, Alistair rolled over onto his back before propping himself up on his elbows to grin at her.

"There you are," he said, grinning as she untied her belt. "Come here." The grin melted as she ignored the request and reached instead for her undergarments and started to pull them on. "What's the matter?"

"Dulin's here," she said with a sigh, pulling on her leggings. "He's waiting to take me to see Harrowmont."

Alistair stared at her before remembering suddenly what a Harrowmont was. "Wait," he said, reaching for his pants. "I'll go with you."

Baby barked, concurring with the sentiment as he hopped up from his rug.

Myranda pulled off Alistair's shirt and tossed it toward him, grinning when it landed on his head. "I was looking forward to crawling back into bed for a few more hours, too," she said, reaching for her own shirt.

"Later."

"Maybe later." Myranda pulled on her shirt, giggling when her lover stepped behind her and wrapped his arms around her, one hand cupping her breast.

"Definitely later."

She reached her hands back to take his hips, rocking her own against him. " _My_ , but you're _awfully_ forward this morning, Ali-bear," she teased.

Alistair grinned, kissing her neck. "Can I help it if you're irresistible?" he murmured.

Myranda giggled again. "So I still have you under my spell."

"And I have no intention of ever breaking free." He kissed her neck again before releasing her. He picked up her sword belt, enjoying the view of her wriggling into her leather chestplate before handing it to her and buckling on his own sword.

They descended the stairs a minute later, meeting Dulin before following him out and up toward the Diamond Quarter to the Harrowmont mansion. The mansion was opulent in an overwhelmingly conservative manner. Everything was of dwarven make—where other parts of Orzammar had at least hints of the surface world beyond, one would never know the city had any contact with anyone else by the décor of the Harrowmont mansion.

Dulin led them to a large set of double doors before indicating for them to wait, opening one and stepping inside with a bow. "I've brought the Grey Wardens, my Lord," he said. The answer was indistinguishable, but must have been positive, because the dwarf stepped back out into the hall and bowed them inside before shutting the door behind them.

The room was large and spacious and no less opulent than the mansion beyond. A side table on the right side of the room held a silver tray with four decanters with liquids of various shades of amber. Two large carpets lay on the floor, leading toward a hearth on the room's left wall, which hosted a large couch and two comfortable-looking chairs around it. A large, magnificent desk dominated the wall opposite the double doors, and this, too, played host to two comfortable looking chairs, aside from the regal high-backed chair sitting behind it. But it was in front of this desk that the dwarf lord Myranda had seen the day they had arrived stood, his back to them.

"I appreciate what you have done, Wardens," he said, "and I apologize for putting one of your rank through such trials." He turned then to face them. "I am Lord Pyral Harrowmont and I thank you for your efforts to help me preserve King Endrin's throne."

"All I want is your support against the Blight," Myranda said.

Harrowmont shrugged his shoulders slightly. "For us, the darkspawn are a constant menace, so a Blight may not elicit the same urgency you are used to. Ultimately, the Assembly decides what troops to send. If they no longer fear civil war, they'll have no reason to hold back. If you want my support to count, I will have to be king, and right now, there is no sure way to get there."

"You didn't call me to this meeting just to tell me there's nothing you can do," Myranda said. "I trust you have not wasted my time that much." She felt the tension level in the room increase as she stared down at the dwarven lord, well within her element. "Surely there must be something."

Harrowmont thought for a moment before meeting the Grey Warden's green eyes again. "Have you heard of a woman named Jarvia and the criminal carta she runs?"

"No."

"The Assembly receives pleas every day from the common folk, begging that something be done about her," the lord explained. "So far, no one has managed."

"So you want us to clean up the mess."

Harrowmont leveled his gaze on her. "If you would help me in this, it would show the Assembly that I, and not Bhelen, have the ability to defend and rule this city."

Myranda kept to herself the comment that _her_ flushing out the vermin said more about _her_ ability to rule than it did his. "I'll deal with this Jarvia," she said. "Be ready to help against the Blight."

The older man nodded. "Do this and I promise if I take the throne, I will not stop until the Assembly sends your troops." He looked around Myranda and the double door opened again. "Jarvia hides her base in Dust Town, the raw edges of the city where no one lives but casteless and criminals. Look for her there, and do whatever it takes to see that justice is served."

 

 

Myranda wandered the Commons, the golden mirror tucked into the back of her belt. She would deliver it now, before meeting Alistair, Leliana, Zevran, and Wynne to head to Dust Town to look for Jarvia. She found the other young woman on the bridge to the Proving, looking up toward the top of the mountain as if looking for the sky. "Hello, Morrigan," she said.

The witch lowered her eyes to the Grey Warden. "I understand you made quite a spectacle of yourself at the Proving," she said without preamble.

"I suppose," Myranda said with a slight shrug. "It was actually more fun than I'd originally thought it would be."

"I see."

Myranda watched the other woman lift her eyes again. She didn't look overly nervous, but there was a level of discomfort about her. "Are you all right?"

"The thought of so much rock over one's head is... disquieting."

"Well I don't think the mountain's going to fall in on us. Honestly, I was more worried about the Brecilian Ruins collapsing."

"Perhaps more unnerving for you, given the number of spiders there."

The blonde shuddered. "Yes. Precisely."

"Has there been any progress in the asinine situation over these people's throne?"

"I met with Lord Harrowmont," Myranda said. "He's asked me to take care of a criminal carta that's been nipping at their heels."

"How pleased the darkspawn will be when you eliminate the crime from this cave."

The Grey Warden laughed a little. "I know, I know. A glorified messenger." She raised an eyebrow. "I don't suppose I could convince you to join us?"

"I believe I shall pass."

Myranda shrugged, clasping her hands behind her before remembering the mirror tucked there. "Oh, I almost forgot. I bought you something yesterday."

Morrigan looked over as Myranda handed her the golden object. "What have you there? A mirror?" She took it and examined it casually, though her aloofness quickly melted to awed disbelief. "It is... just the same as the mirror which Flemeth smashed on the ground, so long ago," she said softly. "It is _incredible_ that you found one so like it..." her voice trailed off. "I am uncertain what to say." She looked up at the blonde woman then. "You must wish something in return, certainly," she said, more certainly.

"Don't be ridiculous," Myranda said with a soft smile. "It's a gift, Morrigan."

"You say _that_ as if I should be accustomed to such a thing," she said. "I have... _never_ received a gift."

Green eyes blinked in shock. "Never?"

"Not one which did not come at a price." Morrigan looked back at the mirror for a moment before lifting her golden eyes again, revealing a slight shimmer there. "I suppose I should say thank you... for the gift," she said, her voice choking a little. "'Tis most thoughtful... truly."

"You're welcome." She watched the witch admire the mirror for a moment more, a soft smile on her face, before turning and wandering away back toward Tapsters, where Alistair and the others were just stepping out. "Ready?" she asked.

"I guess so," Alistair said.

Baby barked, bounding over to her excitedly.

Myranda grinned at the dog. "Who's my good boy?" she cooed, rubbing his ears. "You're ready to take down some criminals, aren't you?"

Baby barked.

"How did Morrigan like the mirror?" Leliana asked.

"You got that for _Morrigan_?" Alistair asked incredulously.

"Yes, I did." She looked at the bard. "And she loved it. Apparently she's not used to getting gifts."

"I can't think _why_ ," Alistair said sarcastically. "It can't be because she's a complete _bitch_."

Myranda smirked, walking over and kissing him on the cheek. "Don't be unkind, Alistair." She looked around at her other companions. "Did anyone inside have any information on Jarvia?"

Zevran shrugged. "If so, they will say nothing except that the base is in the area called Dust Town."

"Well, maybe we'll find something there."

They made their way down to this lower part of the city, making inquiries to the commoners who grew nervous at the mention of the carta woman's name. It was toward the end of the rundown street when they ran into a group of what were obviously thugs milling about and apparently waiting for them.

"Well, look what we have here," one of them said.

Another, obviously the leader of the bunch, stepped forward then. "Jarvia said you were looking for trouble," he said. "Congratulations, you found it."

"Oh, goody," Myranda said with sarcastic glee, pulling her sword and dagger from their sheathes. "I was thinking I wouldn't have any fun today."

The thugs went down quickly, the leader falling back when the blade of his knife was sheared off by one of Zevran's wicked new daggers. Only Myranda's word kept the elf from killing him, and he crawled backwards away from the snarling mabari that continued to creep toward him. "D-don't kill me!" he stammered, looking up at the Grey Warden woman striding purposefully toward him. "Sodding ancestors, what do they teach you on the surface? You fight like a bleedin' archdemon!" He looked around at his fallen comrades. "Sweet bloody Stone, look at them all!" His attention was brought back to the human woman as she grabbed him by the front of the shirt and picked him up, leaving his feet to dangle off the ground.

"Tell me where your base is," she demanded.

"The base is below the city," he said quickly. "Y-you can get to it through the wall of the third house on this row." He pointed at the appropriate house. "Put this token through the slot and it'll open." He handed her the token—which appeared to be a finger bone—before looking at her uncertainly. "Will... will you let me go now?"

Myranda handed the bone to Zevran before tossing the dwarf away. "You won't want to be at Jarvia's when I get there," she said.

The thug leader stared at her as he sat up. "R-really?" he blinked before getting to his feet. "Oh, thank you. How do they say it? The ancestors have shown their favor. Bless you!" he added as he ran off.

"I was under the impression that you had already had some fun today, my dear Myranda," Zevran said with a smirk.

Myranda looked at him with feigned shock, though a smile pulled at the corners of her lips. "Shame on you, listening in this morning!" she chastised teasingly as Alistair flushed a bright crimson. "And that wasn't the kind of fun I was talking about." She took the bone token back and walked toward the house the dwarf had indicated, bumping her hip against her lover's as she passed him. "Come on, let's see if we can't find this secret base of Jarvia's."

They headed into the house, looking around the single-room stone shack with the aid of a light orb Wynne conjured above her open palm.

"I don't see anything," Alistair said finally.

"Damn it," Myranda swore. "That bastard lied to me."

"Wait," Leliana said from where she was examining the solid back wall. "Wynne, could you bring the light a little closer, please?"

Myranda stepped over as well, looking over the older woman's shoulder as the bard examined what looked like a fold in the stone. "Find something?"

"I think so," she said. "Yes! There's a slot here, see?" She pointed. "I think it's just big enough..."

The Grey Warden caught the redhead's wrist before she put her finger in the hole. She shook her head before inserting the finger bone the dwarf had given her, giving Leliana a look as something heavy crunched down on it. She twisted the bone, hearing a heavy tumbler slide back with a loud click. "Good eye," she said as a section of wall pulled away. "Boys? A little help?"

They managed to push the door open to reveal a long, dimly-lit hallway that sloped steadily downward, twisting and turning as it went. After several minutes they were met with another, more traditional door with a slot that was at the perfect eye level for a dwarf. The five looked at each other before Myranda shrugged and knocked sharply.

The slot opened with a sharp crack and a pair of dark eyes looked up at them. "What's the password?"

"Password?" Alistair repeated.

"Ooh," Leliana said. "We used such elaborate passwords in Orlais. They were always something like..." her voice trailed off for a moment while she tried to remember one "'Dead parrots rarely sing.'"

"I read about something similar," Wynne said with a wry smile. "I believe the one they used was 'The rooster crows at midnight.'"

Myranda giggled. "That's so silly!"

"I much prefer 'The Crows fly at midnight,'" Zevran said.

"'I always carry an umbrella in case it rains!'" Leliana put in.

Baby barked, seemingly with laughter.

"'The buns are on the move!'" Alistair added with a laugh.

Myranda giggled. "'There's sand in my swimming costume!'"

"'The rains have come early this fall, so wear your good socks!'"

The slot had since slammed shut, and now the door opened for five heavily armored dwarves. "Looks like we have a few martyrs, boys."

"Think they're funny, do they?" another said. "We'll see how hard they're laughing when they're dead."

The party drew their weapons as the dwarves rushed them, fighting off the thugs while continuing to shout ridiculous pass codes to each other. With the battle over and the humor of the situation waning, they continued down the twisted passage, killing more criminals as they came across them until finding another door: this one iron and without a view slot.

"Do we break it down?" Myranda asked.

"It's iron," Alistair pointed out.

Myranda looked over at Wynne.

"A well-placed fireball may do the trick," the older woman said, answering the question in the bright green eyes.

"All right, then."

The door opened then, suddenly, much to the surprise of the party. They looked around at each other before stepping cautiously forward.

" _Do_ come in," a female voice in the room beyond coaxed. "We've been expecting you."

Myranda started to step through the door, but Alistair moved in front of her, placing his shield between her and any danger that might have been waiting for them. When no arrows clanked off of the metal, they looked at each other before she put a hand on his arm to lower the shield, noting how the others stepped carefully into the room to flank them.

The room was filled burly, rough-looking dwarves—at least fifty, if not more—all of which were obviously led by the lone woman in the room. She was younger than Myranda had expected, perhaps not even thirty with short, dark hair and a confidence that was undeniable. The blonde found herself smirking.

"Good afternoon, Jarvia."

"At last I meet the Grey Warden who's taken such an interest in us of late." She spread her arms wide. "Congratulations. You've found my hideout."

The dwarves around them chuckled darkly.

"So Harrowmont finally realized we're taking the city," Jarvia went on, "yet he still can't be bothered to send his own men." She shook her head in mock sadness. "Well, you picked the wrong side, stranger. It doesn't matter who's king, as long as there's a queen!"

"You're awfully cocky for someone whose entire carta is dead," Myranda said, amused.

"You'll pay for their deaths a hundred times over," the dwarf woman promised. She looked around at the carta. "Kill them! But leave the pretty one alive," she added, grinning sadistically at Myranda. "I have plans for her."

Weapons were quickly drawn as the crowd of dwarves rushed the party. Myranda kept her eye on Jarvia the entire time, stabbing her sword through one of the toughs before drawing her knife and sending it sailing through the air, smirking as it embedded itself in the dwarven woman's wrist, causing her to drop the dagger she had drawn to put in Alistair's back.

"Hands off!" Myranda called.

Jarvia met the blonde's smirk with one of her own, making her way toward her with daggers ready.

The thugs fell one by one, and still Myranda and Jarvia remained locked in combat. The others attempted to help the Grey Warden, but the combat between the two rogues was too close.

"Do something!" Alistair said over Baby's insistent barking after trying to rush in and help only to backpedal when Myranda moved into his path. "Leliana?"

"I can't throw one of my knives," she said. "I might hit Myranda."

"Stand back," Wynne ordered, gathering a crackling ball of lightning between her hands. "Dwarves may be immune to magic, but not to the elements."

"Be careful," Alistair said.

"I won't hit her," Wynne said before closing her eyes to concentrate. She gathered the energy for one bolt of lightning, picturing her target very clearly so as to hit the dwarf woman and no one else. When she had gathered enough power, she opened her grey eyes again and shot the bolt directly at the dwarf woman. It struck with a loud, crackling boom that kicked up a large cloud of dust that obscured everything.

As the dust settled, Jarvia lay charred and dead and Myranda was nowhere to be seen.

"Where... where is she?" Leliana asked.

"She couldn't have gone far," Wynne said.

"Myranda?" Alistair called, trying not to panic. "Myranda?!" She was fine. She had to be fine. Wynne couldn't have hit Myranda by mistake and... no! No, that didn't bear thinking about!

Zevran narrowed his eyes, looking around. He had a funny feeling about this, but he couldn't quite place what it was. He had just shifted his grip on his daggers when he suddenly felt the kiss of cold steel at the side of his neck. He tensed, but made no other movement.

"Light as a feather," Myranda's voice breathed into his ear, "silent as a wraith."

The elf closed his eyes, desperate to control the immediate reactions of his body to the sound of her low whisper in his ear, her breath teasing across the sensitive point. If he had ever wanted to have sex with a woman, he wanted to make mad, passionate love to Myranda Cousland... here and now. "By my rules," he murmured, loud enough for her ears alone, "you must at least make love to me before you kill me."

"Then I better not kill you, then, hm?"

The blade slid gently along his neck before it was pulled away and Zevran breathed a soft sigh... in disappointment or relief, he wasn't sure. He turned his head as the blonde woman stepped carefully around him, grinning at her before realizing that her grin was more of a grimace.

"Here I am," she called to Alistair, taking a few steps toward him as Baby barked.

The other Grey Warden turned and breathed a huge sigh of relief. "Thank the Maker! Where were you?"

"I was checking the shadows," she said as he trotted over and frowned at her.

"You're hurt," he said.

"I'm fine, love... except perhaps for my hair, which is probably standing on end."

"Where were you injured?"

She winced as she gingerly lifted her left arm, revealing that the sleeve of her shirt had been shredded and what remained was, like her arm, covered in blood.

"Andraste's mercy!" Leliana swore.

"I was a little too close to the blast, I think," Myranda said as Alistair stared at her in horror. "I lifted my arm to cover my eyes and not be blinded, but I think... it's pretty bad."

"Here," Wynne said, hovering her hands over her arm as she cast the various healing spells.

"I believe they call that friendly fire, my dear Wynne," Zevran teased gently.

One corner of the mage's mouth lifted a little. "Let's call it payback for the way she decapitated my shadow with such gleeful vigor."

"It wasn't gleeful," Myranda retorted with a grin of her own. "Your shadow was trying to kill us."

Five minutes later, the Grey Warden's arm had been healed of all the abrasions and burns and the party was on its way again. The locked door at the back of the room sent them searching through the criminals' pockets, Leliana finally discovering an old, tarnished key on Jarvia's body. This fit perfectly into the lock, the door leading to a long tunnel that ended at a blank wall.

"Another trap door?" Myranda asked incredulously before reaching up to rub her face with her hands. "Andraste's ass, it never ends!"

"This one has a peep hole!" Leliana cried, leaning on the rock face and putting her eye against it. "There's some kind of shop on the other side!"

Zevran sighed heavily. "I suppose it was too much to hope that it was a whorehouse," he said.

Alistair, meanwhile, was examining a small statue of a dwarf pointing toward the wall. He considered this for a moment before pushing gently and experimentally on the statue's outstretched arm. While it shifted fractionally, nothing else happened. The bandits must not have come this way in some time—the mechanism had almost completely seized up. Not to be defeated, he braced himself and pushed his whole weight down on the arm.

The arm dropped before breaking off with a loud snap, and the section of wall Leliana was leaning on suddenly flew outward and open, knocking over weapon racks and sending the bard sprawling onto the floor. The shopkeeper's cry of surprised terror mixed with Leliana's cry of pain as a mace fell off of a nearby rack and landed on her hand.

"Leliana!" Myranda cried.

"Maker's breath!" Alistair swore, trotting over. "Are you all right? I'm so sorry!"

"By all the beards of my ancestors!" the shopkeeper cried, reminding the group of his presence. "How did you... where did you come from?"

"Father?" A young teenage dwarf rushed into the room—the red-haired youngster the group had met when they arrived.

"Stay back, Dagna!" the shopkeeper said, pointing at her. Then he turned back to the group. "Y-you made a hole in my wall!"

"Yeah... sorry about that, too," Alistair said as Wynne moved to help Leliana to her feet.

"This hole leads to a tunnel to the carta's hideout," Myranda explained.

"It... it does?" the weapons merchant stammered, his voice squeaking a little in fear. "Oh, sod it.... If people find out about this, my business will be ruined! They'll think I have something to do with Jarvia! I swear I don't have anything to do with them! They're criminals!"

"I wouldn't worry about it too much, my good ser," Zevran said. "Jarvia's dead."

The storekeeper's eyes widened. "Dead? How? Did you…" he looked around at all of them. "You did, didn't you? You killed her! And then you climbed out of there into _my shop_!"

"It'll be ok, Father," Dagna piped up. "We'll just have some of the other smiths come in and rebuild the wall!"

Her father looked at her before looking back at the group of surfacers and groaning. "Aw, just leave me alone," he muttered, sitting heavily in a nearby chair and lowering his face into his hands. "I don't want anything to do with this."

"Come on," Dagna said cheerfully, helping the group over the piles of scattered weapons.

"And if anyone comes asking, I'm gonna tell them _you_ did it!" the shopkeeper called as a parting shot as the group left.

"Sorry about that," Dagna said when they were outside the shop. "My father can be a little uptight about things." She looked at Wynne. "Did you make that hole with your magic?"

"No," Myranda said. "Leliana quite ungracefully fell through."

"And I think that mace broke my hand," the bard added cradling the wounded appendage, the bones of which were sticking up at unnatural angles.

"Here," Wynne said. "I'll heal it for you."

"Can I watch?" the dwarf girl asked excitedly. "I've never seen magic done before!"

Myranda smirked. "This probably won't be nearly as impressive as the lightning bolt she conjured to kill Jarvia."

"Wow! Really?" Dagna enthused. "I bet that was just _incredible_!" She watched with wide-eyed fascination as Wynne held the white ball of healing light against Leliana's hand from wrist to fingertips, repairing all of the damage. She blinked with amazement as the ball of light receded and the red-haired human woman flexed her hand as if it had never been injured. "Wow," she breathed. "That was _totally_ amazing! Oh, I hope they accept me at the Circle... I can't wait to go there!" With that, she ran back into the shop, and they could hear her excited voice telling her father the amazing feat she had just witnessed.

Myranda laughed quietly to herself before waving for the others to follow. "How about a drink?" she offered, heading back toward Tapsters.

"Shouldn't we tell Harrowmont that we've killed Jarvia?" Alistair asked.

Myranda waved this away. "Trust me, if the gossip mongering is half as good here as in Denerim during official functions, he'll know before the night's over."

Corra and the patrons of Tapsters who had been there when the group left looked quite surprised to see them walking back in. A cheer went up when the Grey Warden told them Jarvia and her carta had been eliminated, and a round of drinks on the house followed. The patrons pressed Myranda for the story, but she deferred to Leliana, who told the tale with great excitement and little exaggeration. When she finished, an impressed murmur passed through the crowd, though there were a few grumbles of disbelief.

Myranda ordered a glass of the sweet, bubbling wine she had had that morning, accepting it from the hostess with a smile.

"By the way, Warden," Corra said, leaning on the bar. "Some of the girls have been asking." She grinned a little. "That gentleman with you..."

Myranda grinned. "Human? Tall, blond, handsome, and" a gleam entered her eyes " _all_ mine?"

Corra laughed. "Right. Point taken."

The blonde smirked, sipping the wine and looking around to see a pretty young dwarven woman chatting with Alistair. She grinned. Well, Alistair was chatting; the young woman was flirting madly with him, leering more than looking at him.

She was almost adorable in her beauty, though with an undeniable sex appeal. She was busty and curvy—two aspects that she was highlighting with a subtle genius. Her short blonde hair was accented by dark skin, and her face had been tattooed in such a way that accented her brows and cheekbones and the bridge of her nose. These markings, however, were appealing rather than off-putting... rather like the markings on Zevran's body.

After a few minutes of watching Alistair flounder adorably in the face of the young woman's advances, Myranda pushed herself away from the bar. "Good night, Corra," she said.

"Good night, Warden." Her grin widened. "Have fun!"

"Oh, I plan on it," she murmured. She sashayed over to where the two were talking, stepping around the young dwarven woman toward the stairs. She watched with no little amusement as Alistair's eyes went immediately to her, allowing a knowing gleam to enter her eye and a mysterious smile to grace her lips. She continued toward the stairs without pausing, grinning to herself as she emphasized the sway in her hips a little more as she climbed, knowing that he was staring.

It took a little longer than she thought—the dwarven woman must have been incredibly persistent—and she was at their door when she heard feet pounding up the stairs. She unlocked the door before looking down the hall toward the stairs, seeing Alistair come to a halt at the top. She let the mysterious grin curl her lips again before letting herself into the room, closing the door softly behind her.

Alistair stood for a moment, trying to remember how to breathe. Maker's mercy... how did she _do_ that? How could she still manage to steal the breath from him with a single look, to make his brain shut down with a smile? He didn't know... and he didn't really _care_ at the moment, either. The look and the smile had said the same thing, and he had read the message loud and clear. He almost ran down the hall to their room, throwing open the door.

He grinned at the trail she had left him: her sword belt, leather chestplate, leggings, and shirt were all discarded in a line leading to the bed, where she lay waiting for him. She had pulled the covers all the way up over her head, which seemed strange to him, but it was probably part of her game. He closed the door and walked over to the bed, unbuckling his sword belt as he went and letting it fall to the floor before grasping the top of the sheet and pulling it all the way back with one quick yank.

All that lay beneath was a pair of pillows.

He blinked in confusion before he was suddenly pounced upon from behind, Myranda's voice crying out in triumph. He nearly fell forward onto the bed, but managed to keep his balance.

"Got ya!" Myranda giggled, wrapping her legs around his waist as her arms went around his shoulders.

Alistair chuckled. "Dead again?"

"You know it," she murmured, nuzzling his neck.

"Is there anything I can do to keep you from killing me, my lovely assassin?" he asked, sliding his hands under her knees to help support her.

Myranda hummed thoughtfully in his ear before a soft gasp escaped her as his fingertips began to tease up her thigh. "I might be convinced to postpone your death," she whispered, "if you make love to me." She bent her head to kiss his neck in the exact place she knew made him melt. "If you're quite good I may even spare your life."

"I shall do my very best, my lady."

 

 

In the morning, Myranda woke feeling completely sated, keeping her eyes closed as she basked in what was left of a wonderful afterglow. She had lost track of how many times she had risen to climax—and in how many positions—before finally passing out from sheer ecstasy. The beautiful thing about it, though, was that it hadn't been just sex. He had enjoyed and worshiped her body, and she his. The Maker in all His perfection and Andraste in all Her glory had never known the divine bliss the two Grey Wardens had achieved.

She felt Alistair, curled against her left side, stir slowly toward wakefulness, yawning and snuggling closer to her. Then he shifted, trailing feather-light kisses along her throat and across her collarbone. She couldn't stop the whimper that rose in her throat as he nuzzled her breast, finding her nipple and sucking on it with gentle firmness. He was like an infant in search of nourishment, and a smile crept up her lips as the comparison occurred to her. She moaned softly as he moved on top of her, his hands wandering over her skin though his main focus seemed to be at her breast, his tongue teasing her nipple as he suckled. "As much attention as you've been paying to my breasts the last few days, one would think you were trying to replace our child," she teased.

Alistair pulled slowly away before grinning sleepily up at her. "I don't want to replace her," he murmured, moving his hands under her before sliding them up her back. "But I want to try to make another one."

Myranda grinned back, wrapping her legs around him. She met his lips to fall into a soft, gentle kiss, moaning as they rocked slowly together before letting out a soft cry of surprise as he rolled over, pulling her on top of him. She pulled out of the kiss to smile at him, giggling when he leaned up to playfully rub his nose against hers. "Is that why you've been so insistent recently, my prince?" she asked teasingly.

"One of the reasons," he admitted. He took up her left arm, brushing his lips softly against the skin that had been so badly injured the afternoon before. "The other two reasons being because you're so beautiful and I'm lucky enough that you're in my life."

She smiled as he gently touched her, slowly sitting up in his lap. "I love you," she murmured.

"And I love you." He grinned lazily up at her, closing his eyes and groaning with pleasure as she eased him into her body. He never felt so perfect as when they were making love... never felt so complete and whole. He rested his hands on her hips as she started to move over him, content to let her take control.

While she enjoyed having him on top, occasionally, when she wanted to tease him or was feeling especially playful, she would swap their positions to rock and sway over him. She seemed to gain more pleasure from the act when she was on top, which he wanted her to have. She was unbelievable... often teasing him to the edge of a delicious high and managing to keep him just on the edge of the precipice. There had been occasions that, in the middle of their lovemaking, he had rolled them both over to let her lead the rest of the dance. He moaned her name softly once or twice—he was barely aware of anything but the pleasure he felt—and slid one hand down between them, finding her bud and listening to her sharp gasp of pleasure with growing excitement.

A sharp knock on the door interrupted them.

Myranda groaned. "Who is it?" she demanded, gripping Alistair's hips as he tried to roll over and unseat her.

"Dulin Forender, Warden," the voice called through the door. "His Lordship would like to see you."

She rolled her eyes. "Of all the Maker-cursed luck," she muttered. "We'll meet you in the common room in fifteen minutes," she called back. She waited, listening for footsteps in the hall and, hearing none, called out. "Standing at the door will do you no good, ser. I am not in a state of dress to see Harrowmont. And unless you want to hear my _intimate_ " she stressed the word to allow it to carry all of its sexual connotations "dealings with my fellow Warden, I would wait in the common room. I said I would be down in fifteen minutes."

There was another pause, then the sound of feet retreating quickly down the hall when she started to cry out as if in the throes of passion.

She looked down at Alistair and smirked. "Fifteen minutes," she purred.

"It never ceases to amaze me how you wield power like that."

"It comes from being a noble," she said. "I know how to stay... on top of things." She slowly began rocking over him again.

Alistair groaned, surrendering back into the euphoria of his body's pleasure.

 

Twenty minutes later they were seated in Harrowmont's reception room, Myranda looking quite relaxed, almost smirking when the older lord lifted a silver eyebrow at her.

"I heard the news," he told them without preamble. "Jarvia and her carta are dead." He sighed a little. "I suppose it was unrealistic to expect them to surrender."

"It's done," Myranda said dismissively, disinclined to mourn the deaths of petty criminals. "Will you speak to the Assembly now?"

"I have no desire to go back on my word," Harrowmont told her, "but when Bhelen heard the news about Jarvia, he raised the stakes."

Myranda and Alistair exchanged a look.

"He is forcing a vote in the next two days," the dwarf said. "By law, that prevents the Assembly from hearing any other pleas. To help with your troops, I will require your assistance one last time."

The blonde woman was nearly on her feet, but managed to contain her rage.

"Do you know anything of the Paragon Branka?" Harrowmont asked.

"Yes, vaguely. The Assembly raised her to Paragon for inventing some kind of new fuel."

"Yes, a smokeless fuel that made underground forges safer than they've ever been."

"So what does she have to do with us?" Alistair asked.

"Two years ago," the older man explained, "she took her entire house into the Deep Roads on a mad quest to uncover ancient secrets. No one's heard from her since."

The Grey Wardens exchanged another look.

"Were she to return and endorse someone for the throne, the Assembly would be honor-bound to accept her wishes."

"What if she's dead?" Alistair asked.

"Which is the far more likely case," the other Warden added.

Harrowmont looked uncertain. "Her entire house went with her," he said. "It would take a lot to kill so many."

"The Deep Roads are still full of thousands of darkspawn," Myranda pointed out. "The Blight is coming, and some have come to the surface, but the archdemon and most of its legions are still underground. It wouldn't take that much for them to kill a few hundred... if her house numbered _that_ many."

The dwarf lord bowed his head, though he didn't seem to want to accept Myranda's logic. "Bringing proof of her death or a body to return to the Stone would still show that as an ancestor, it was my hand she guided to her remains," he said finally.

"Are you sure this Branka would support you as king?" she asked.

Harrowmont suddenly looked embarrassed. "It's hard to say _what_ she would do," he admitted. "She wasn't exactly known for her predictability." He lifted his eyes to a point over their heads, lost in remembrance. "She never seemed to like being a Paragon. She was devoted to her craft, never cared for politics. But one of the most brilliant minds Orzammar has seen." He pondered on this until Myranda cleared her throat loudly and he looked back at her. "Branka hated darkspawn with a passion," he said, returning to the point. "She would certainly be a valuable voice to support your treaty."

"Fine. If it will get you the throne, I will see if I can find Branka."

"My men traced Branka's disappearance to an ancient crossroads known as Caridin's Cross," Harrowmont told her, standing and going to a nearby shelf to pull a rolled up parchment. "It is many miles below where we normally venture, but I can provide this map to lead you there." He moved some things carefully off of the desk before unrolling the map with a flourish. "Just enter the Deep Roads through the mines, here," he said pointing. "And Caridin's Cross is here."

"It will take longer than two days. Even with the Blight, the Deep Roads are still crawling with darkspawn. You know this. How long did it take your men to reach this point?" Myranda asked, tapping the map.

"Two weeks," Harrowmont admitted sheepishly. "Maybe longer. I'm not certain."

"Then you must delay the Assembly. The vote cannot happen in two days. The timeline is impossible."

"I will try, Warden."

"You cannot try. You _must_."

Harrowmont nodded slightly. "I will do my best. Now, if there's nothing else..."

"There is," Myranda interrupted, making no move to rise. If anything, she relaxed back in her chair. "We will mount this expedition for you. But my party will need food, supplies. Enough for the journey out _and_ back."

"Of course."

"And _you_ will pay for it." She watched with fiendish glee as Harrowmont's brows lowered. "It is not an unreasonable request, my lord," she said. "We are making this expedition on your behalf; surely you did not expect to not have any expense attached to it?" She met the dwarf lord's stern look with reasonable expectancy. He would yield to her sensible logic; she knew it, and he knew it. But part of the dance was his reluctance and unwillingness to concede.

"Very well, Warden."

"Excellent," she said, standing now that things had gone her way. "I would have enough for a legion: remember we are humans, an elf, and a qunari." She lifted her hand above her head to indicate the height of the latter race. "Less drink, more food. Shall I give Dulin the details?"


	34. Rolling in the Deep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party descends into the Deep Roads in search of Branka.

**Chapter 34: Rolling in the Deep**

 

It took two days to gather the necessary supplies for the excursion. In the meantime, Harrowmont had appeared before the Assembly to inform them of Myranda's mission, a claim she backed with her own voice, though she was careful not to promise to bring the Paragon back alive. Despite this, the Assembly surged with the thought of the return of its Paragon and resolved to postpone the vote until she arrived.

On the morning of the third day, the group was set with two of the large horned animals the dwarves called brontos loaded down with food and supplies. Feeding the beasts would take no effort, the dwarves told Myranda, for they needed little food and could consume organic material from rock, if necessary. Also, if supplies ran low, one of the beasts could be butchered for its meat—which she was told was quite tasty.

Myranda also waited until this morning to tell Alistair of the decision she'd made when she learned they were going to go into the Deep Roads... a decision he was, unsurprisingly, unhappy about.

"You're not coming," she told him for the third time.

"I'm not going to let you leave me behind!"

"I am not going to risk something happening." Myranda sighed. "You said yourself that the Deep Roads are where Grey Wardens go to die."

"That's all the more reason I should go _with_ you!" Alistair cried.

"I want you to stay here and keep an eye on things."

"No!" He cast about for another reason... _any_ reason for her to take him along. "I... I'm the Senior Warden!" he said. "I order you to take me with you!"

Myranda lifted an eyebrow, but said nothing at this attempt to pull rank. She didn't have to.

"Myranda," he said, taking her hands. "Don't leave me behind. You _can't_ leave me behind. I... I don't know what to look for! I should be in the Deep Roads with you... helping to protect you!"

"We are the only two Wardens left in Ferelden, Alistair. We cannot risk the annihilation of the entire Order... not now that the Blight is coming. Not again." She looked at him. "You need to stay so that Ferelden will continue to have hope."

Alistair sighed, lowering his head and closing his eyes. "All right," he murmured. "If you think that's best."

She stepped into his arms and kissed him, softly and slowly. "Keep your ear to the ground," she told him when she pulled away. "We'll be back in a few weeks."

"I love you, Myranda."

"And I love you, my darling." She forced herself to smile. "It won't be so bad. I'll be back before you know it."

"I already miss you," he said, leaning his head against hers, "and you haven't even left yet."

"Don't think I'm asking you to stay because I don't want you with me," she said. She felt her eyes starting to fill with tears and fought them back. "Of course I do. We've done everything together. But I can't risk both of us to the Deep Roads."

"I know." He tightened his arms around her. "I just don't like the thought of not being there with you."

"I'm not going down there alone, you know. I'll have the others with me. Wynne and Zevran and Leliana won't let anything happen to me. And you know Baby will look after me."

The mabari barked in agreement.

"I know," Alistair said again. "I just..."

"I know." Myranda lifted her hand to his face, tracing her fingertips along his jaw. "I love you, Alistair."

"And I love you." He leaned forward and kissed her softly and deeply, pulling away just enough to whisper, "Always."

She smiled a little, stepping out of his embrace, though he caught her hand before she turned. This she squeezed gently, holding onto his hand as she led the way out of their room and out of the tavern, where the party was waiting for her. "Right," she said. "Let's go."

The group headed toward the mines, the Grey Wardens falling farther and farther behind until Myranda pulled Alistair to a stop before they left the Commons. She stepped willingly into his arms as he pulled her into a tight embrace, molding her body against his as she hugged him, kissing him softly and deeply. Five minutes later she pulled reluctantly away, holding on to his hand as she stepped away until the distance became too great and the contact was broken. He looked so miserable, and she had to firmly remind herself that it was too dangerous for both of them to go into the Deep Roads. With a sigh, she turned and walked away with Baby padding next to her, her heart heavy.

Wynne and Zevran had paused to wait for her, and strode with her toward the mines, stopping again as she paused by a large stone carving of a dwarf, in front of which a dwarf woman was kneeling.

"Ancestors, guard my son," she was praying, "for he is lost in darkness. Mothers, keep him safe, for you know what it is to mourn."

Myranda frowned. Would Alistair be doing the same thing while she was gone? She hated to think of how he would waste away, sick with worry. The dwarf woman must have felt her eyes, because she looked up at them before standing hurriedly.

"I'm sorry," she said. "Did you have an offering for the ancestors? Although..." she went on slowly as she looked them over, "I can't imagine _your_ ancestors reside in the Stone."

"What were you praying for?" Myranda asked gently.

"My name is Filda," the dwarf woman said, "widow of Teruck of the Smith Caste. I pray here every day for my son, Ruck. I only wish I knew whether I should be asking for his safe return or for the ancestors to accept his soul."

"What happened to him?"

"It was five years ago," Filda explained. "He was only a youngster. He joined a Deep Roads excursion—the only smith to go with the warriors to repair their arms. He was so proud." This last came out in a whisper, and the widow visibly rallied herself to continue her story. "But he got... separated somehow. When they came home, he wasn't with them."

"Did anyone go after him?"

Filda shook her head. "The captains don't want to lose anyone searching for stray men. Too many were taken by darkspawn that way."

Myranda pursed her lips. "We shouldn't abandon him," she said. "I'll look for him, if you want."

The dwarf woman looked at her in disbelief. " _How_?" she asked. "There is no way except to brave the Deep Roads yourself."

The blonde smiled a little. "I'm a Grey Warden," she said. "That's what we do."

Baby barked, grinning his doggie grin.

Filda's eyes widened with shock. "A Warden!" she said, slowly coming to grips with what the human woman had said and what it meant. "So you _could_ do it! Only Wardens face the Deep Roads without a-a company backing them!" She took Myranda's hands then. "Oh, thank you!" she said, grateful tears streaming down her face. "The ancestors finally heed my prayers!"

"Take heart, good widow Filda," Wynne said gently. "We'll do our best."

Zevran snorted at this. "Don't get your hopes up," he said. "We could search the Deep Roads for decades with no sight of the boy."

"But if we find him, we'll do our best to bring him home," Myranda said. "We'll be down there, so we may run into him."

"Oh thank you, thank you." Filda sniffled and, with great effort, pulled herself together again. "Please, find me as soon as you return!"

"I will," Myranda promised. She sent the widow on her way before turning back toward the mines. She had barely taken five steps when she heard a gruff voice hailing her. She turned and saw the red-haired drunken dwarf who had verbally assaulted her a few days before jogging toward her. "Go ahead," she said to the others. "I'll be right there. Go on, Baby," she added when the mabari hesitated. She turned to face the dwarf, who halted in front of her, panting heavily.

"There you are," he gasped. "I thought I'd spoken to a Grey Warden... but for some reason I'd chalked it up to the drink." He took another moment to catch his breath as Myranda folded her arms over her chest. "Ah, I know you're down here to look for Branka, and, uh... I need to ask a favor."

"You're... Oghren, right?" Myranda asked. "You've been trying to get help to find Branka?"

"Aye, I am, and I have." He snorted. "For all the sodding good it's done me," he grumbled. He looked up at her. "I'm the only one who still cares about her as a _person_. Everyone else thinks she's just a _symbol_ they can leave in the Deep Roads where she can't _offend_ anyone."

Myranda lifted an eyebrow at this. His tone was alarmingly bitter and so bitingly sarcastic that she almost felt physically wounded.

"I know what Branka wanted," Oghren said, the sarcasm leaving his voice, "and how she was looking. You, I assume, know whatever Harrowmont's men have dug up on _where_ exactly she disappeared."

"I know as much as Harrowmont has told me, yes."

"If we pool our knowledge, we stand a chance of finding Branka," Oghren said. "Otherwise, good sodding luck."

"I think I'm going to need all the help I can get, so I'd say it sounds like we have a deal." She held out her hand, which the dwarf took in a crushing grip.

"You should know that Branka was looking for the Anvil of the Void," Oghren said, "the secret to building golems, which was lost centuries ago."

"An... anvil?"

"Not just _an_ anvil," the dwarf said gruffly. " _The_ Anvil. The smith Caridin built it, and with it, Orzammar had a hundred years of peace, while it was protected by the golems forged on the Anvil. As far as anyone knows, the Anvil was built in the old Ortan Thaig. Branka planned to start looking there... _if_ she could ever find it." He shrugged a little. "All she knew was that it was past Caridin's Cross. No one's seen that thaig for five hundred years."

"Not so long as that," Myranda said. "Harrowmont gave me a map. I can get us to Caridin's Cross."

The dwarf nodded. "If we're going, let's get moving. Branka's not going to sodding find herself."

"And the sooner we leave, the sooner we get back." She led the way over to her party, introducing them to Oghren and explaining that he would be accompanying them. Introductions were made around and Myranda patted the two brontos—which both had lanterns hanging from their horns—and waved the group to the entrance to the mines, only to be halted by the commander.

"What's this? A human?" He looked around at his fellows. "Did we make these tunnels tall enough for humans? Or... whatever you are?" he added, looking at Sten.

"Qunari," Myranda supplied. "And I'd hope the tunnels are tall enough. I understand Grey Wardens spend a lot of time there... and that most of them are human."

The commander shook his head. "I'm sorry, but I cannot allow you past the front lines without a deshyr's permission."

"Open your eyes, man!" Oghren said. "This Grey Warden is on a quest to find your Paragon! Do I have to take your stinking head off?"

Myranda held out a hand to the dwarf, grimacing. She was beginning to wonder if adding Oghren to their group, even if only temporarily, was a bad idea. "What Oghren is trying to say," she said, hoping to ease any tension the temperamental dwarf may have caused, "is that we have permission."

"Oghren _could_ have been a deshyr for House Branka," the mines commander said, glancing at the other dwarf. "I _suppose_ he's the next best thing, in both skill and arrogance."

"I'm leading this expedition for Lord Harrowmont," Myranda added helpfully.

The commander held up a hand. "Oghren's close enough. You and your party may pass. I'd offer more assistance, but my command post is here. All of Orzammar relies on _us_ to hold this line."

Myranda looked up at the doors. "Are there no dwarves past this point?"

"A few outposts," the dwarven commander said. "Legion of the Dead, mostly... fools that they are. Some scavenger types, too."

"Legion of the Dead?"

"It's an independent company of soldiers. They accept no command but their own. Anyone who can bear arms can join, no matter his crimes..." his voice trailed off in a dark chuckle. "Or sanity."

Myranda lifted an eyebrow at him.

"They hold a funeral when they join and swear their only goal is a glorious death."

"I see." She looked at the doors again, trying to squash her sudden queasiness. "Are darkspawn the only danger in these tunnels?"

The commander choked back a laugh. "Of course not! Down here, you're bound to run into giant cave spiders, deepstalkers, and other vermin."

The group looked at Myranda, who did not seem as terrified as the revelation of the presence of untold numbers of giant spiders surely made her... not to mention whatever a deepstalker was. Instead, the blonde simply nodded.

"I see," she said. "Excuse me a moment." Without another word, she turned and walked away.

Oghren turned to watch her. "Where's she goin'?" he asked.

Zevran chuckled. "Not to worry. She has simply gone to fetch an extra measure of security. She will return very shortly."

Baby barked.

 

Alistair stood on the large bridge in the middle of the Commons, leaning on the rail and staring dejectedly down into the depths of the mountain. Maker knew how long Myranda would be gone. And what if she didn't...? He shook his head. No. No, he shouldn't think that way. She would come back. She had to! She had Baby with her. And Wynne. And Leliana. And... well, yes, Zevran would look after her too. He felt a little queasy about this last, but brushed the jealousy aside. She didn't love Zevran. She had told him she wouldn't do anything with Zevran—would never choose the elf over him—and she had meant it. He trusted her. Still, he felt... abandoned. What was he supposed to listen for? Would he know when it happened?

He heard a familiar determined footstep and looked up to see Myranda walking toward him. "Come to say one more goodbye?"

She didn't respond. Just reached out, took his hand, and turned, nearly dragging him along behind her. "You're coming," was all she said.

He followed obediently, confused, but happy to be going along. He waited for her to explain why she had changed her mind, but she never did. He petted Baby as the dog loped over and bounced happily around him, joining the party and fastidiously ignoring Morrigan's disapproving sneer and Zevran's grin.

"How far is it to Caridin's Cross?" Myranda asked the mines commander.

The dwarf commander shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine. No one's been _there_ in centuries. But both Bhelen and Harrowmont had men looking just this month."

Myranda squared her shoulders. "All right," she said. "If we're going, let's go."

"Be careful out there," the commander told her.

The doors were opened and the group faced the yawning black opening to the Deep Roads before the blonde woman lifted her chin and led the way inside, waving for the others to follow.

"What's going on?" Alistair asked softly. "Not that I'm complaining, but..."

Leliana laughed softly under her breath. "Apparently there are giant spiders in the Deep Roads," she explained.

"Ah." Suddenly everything made sense.

 

 

They traveled for days, following the map Myranda had gotten from Harrowmont, getting turned around twice because of the lack of light, fighting darkspawn wherever they came across them. It was almost impossible for Myranda to tell where they were coming from, as her blood tingled with every step. She slept only after collapsing from exhaustion, the tingling not letting her relax. At least her companions offered some relief to the oppressive dread, Zevran teasing Oghren in his way, saved from being sliced in half by assuring the dwarf that the he found him "slightly less attractive than a slime-filled pool of swamp water." He also teased Morrigan, winning a bet he had apparently made with Alistair that the apostate could be flattered to the point that she would show that she did—to some extent—have a shred of feminine vanity.

At last the solid rock became a sort of lined street, and the darkness receded in front of the torch-lined walls of the huge road.

"Caridin's Cross!" Oghren said. "I can't believe Harrowmont actually tracked this place down."

"'X' marks the spot, I suppose," Myranda said, looking at the map again. "And that's where we are."

"This used to be one of the biggest crossroads in the old empire," the dwarf said. "You could get _anywhere_ from here. Including Ortan Thaig."

"Thaig?" Leliana repeated.

"Like a colony," Myranda explained before looking at Oghren. "So, you know where to go from here?"

"Aye," he said with a nod. "Branka dug up some maps of the ancient empire. Let's see that map of yours." He took the map and trotted ahead for a while, the others drifting along behind him. He paused once or twice, inspecting a caved-in passage before turning back to the Grey Warden. "It's a little tough to tell with so much of it collapsed now, but near as I can figure we're on the right path to Ortan Thaig."

"See any sign of Branka yet?"

He shook his head. "Not a one, but trust me, we _will_ once we're on the path to the old Ortan Thaig."

"What's so important about this Ortan Thaig?" Alistair asked.

"It's the home of Caridin, the Paragon who made the Anvil," the dwarf said. "He was an Ortan before he founded his own house, and even then, he spent most of his time in their thaig. Branka figured it was the best guess for where the Anvil was located."

"Do you know anything else about the Anvil?" Myranda asked.

Oghren shook his head again, looking down the old road. "No one but Caridin ever really knew more than that it had some kind of Stone-blessed power. Every golem who ever ranged across the empire was hammered on the steel of that Anvil... but no one ever knew exactly _how_ they were made." He lifted his eyes back to Myranda. "But Branka was sure _she_ could find out."

"Great," Myranda said. "Let's go find her, then."

The dwarf grinned at her. "I've been waiting for someone to say that for two sodding years."

They followed the road as it curved around only to find that the ceiling ahead of them had collapsed, blocking the path ahead, though there was a tunnel leading into the wall on their right.

"More tunnels?" Alistair asked sarcastically. "Really?"

Myranda took a deep breath. They hadn't run into any spiders on the road... but the tunnels were likely to be infested. "There's nothing for it," she said. "Let's go."

Baby barked and bounded into the tunnel, the others following. Myranda sneaked a glance at Morrigan to find her looking mildly distressed—an indicator of how nervous she truly was. The tunnel seemed to curve around the cave-in, though the midpoint of the curve was a huge cavern room that seemed to be a small advance base. It was here that they ran into four camps of darkspawn… and no spiders. Still, given the number of close range fighters the group now boasted, Myranda provided range support with Leliana and the two mages. The two archers nearly dropped their bows, however, when the ends of the arrows suddenly burst into flames; they were reassured by Wynne's apology and assurance that it was magical enhancement: the fire would burn the darkspawn, but not destroy the arrows.

When the room was cleared, Myranda picked through the darkspawn, salvaging what weapons, armor and trinkets she could. When Alistair asked, she said it was to sell when they got back to Orzammar, so she could hopefully buy the beautiful dagger at Garrin's shop. He grinned, kissing her softly when she stood up again before helping her to secure her plunder to one of the two brontos.

The other side of the room held another tunnel, which eventually looped back to the road on the other side of the cave-in.

"This looks like the right way out," Oghren said as they walked around bend in the road, pointing straight ahead when the road split into three. "Ortan Thaig... won't be long now."

"Do you know how far it is?" Myranda asked, handing the map over and looking at it over his shoulder.

Oghren grunted as he studied the map, glancing up at the sudden light over his head that Wynne provided. He pointed to a point below and to the right of the X that marked their current location. "About here... two, three days, straight this way."

"Well, let's get going, then," Myranda said, taking the map back and refolding it to shove back into her belt pouch before waving for the others to follow.

Oghren fell back to draw even with the other Grey Warden, grinning lecherously up at the human man. "So. With the boss, aye?"

Alistair looked down at the dwarf, blinking in confusion. "Pardon?"

"You and the boss," Oghren said, nodding at the blonde woman leading the way down the dark tunnel. "Rolling your oats."

"I don't know—"

"Polishing the footstones."

"—what you're—"

"Tapping the midnight still, if you will," Oghren said with a lewd chuckle.

"What are you going on about?"

"Forging the moaning statue?" the dwarf offered. "Bucking the forbidden horse? Donning the velvet hat?"

Myranda, who had been listening, winced at this last before lifting her eyes toward the ceiling, feeling the heat of a blush creeping into her cheeks. She knew, however, her blush wasn't nearly as dark as Alistair's.

"Are you just making these up right now?" the other Grey Warden asked.

"Nope," Oghren said with a chuckle. "Been saving 'em."

 

 

Just as Oghren said, two days later—though it may have been six for all Myranda knew, exhausted as she was—they reached their new destination. She was more grateful for Alistair's presence with every day... every moment as she leaned on him.

"You need to rest, my love," he murmured into her ear as he wrapped his arm—his left, so as to protect her with his shield—around her waist. "You're running yourself ragged."

"I know," she whispered. "It's just... the taint. It feels like there are darkspawn everywhere."

"I know." He pulled her closer, sneaking a quick kiss against her forehead. "I'll hold you tonight so you can sleep."

Myranda looked up at him and smiled, letting herself be pulled to a halt when Oghren stopped in front of them, looking around in the feeble light given by the lanterns secured to the brontos.

"By the tits of my ancestors," the dwarf breathed, "Ortan Thaig. I never thought I'd see this place in the flesh."

Myranda looked around. She couldn't see much in the gloom, but it was obvious there had once been a settlement of some sort at their location. Her attention was drawn back to Oghren when he walked over to one of the walls, running his fingers across the chipped surface.

"I can see Branka all over this place," he said. "She always took chips from the walls at regular intervals when she was in a new tunnel—check their composition."

"That's also a handy breadcrumb trail," Alistair said. "You know, only without the breadcrumbs."

"So she's here," Myranda said.

Oghren shook his head. "If she was still here, she'd have sentries out by now."

"Where would Branka have gone if not here?" Leliana asked.

"I don't know," the dwarf admitted. " _This_ was always her goal. She figured if the Anvil wasn't here, there would at least be some clue to point her to where it is."

"And you have no idea where this Anvil is?" Morrigan sneered.

"No one does," Oghren countered. "At the time, Ortan Thaig was almost part of the main city. No one bothered to mark where the Anvil was stored. Now it's impossible to know if it's been moved or... even destroyed. But trust me," he added as Myranda's shoulders dropped a little, "if we find it, we find Branka."

The blonde woman looked around again. "What can you tell me about these ruins?"

"This was Caridin's home thaig. He was an Ortan before he got raised to Paragon. Even stayed here when he could have had his own house." He shrugged. "I guess he didn't want to move his people to Bownammar."

Green eyes blinked. "Bownammar?" she asked, repeating the strange name.

"The city of the dead," the dwarf explained. "Caridin built it to honor the Legion of the Dead, but it was more like a sodding mausoleum than anything," he added with a snort. "Of course, that was all before he built the Anvil. After that, he was the city's pet genius until he angered the king and fell into disfavor."

"So there was a city here?" Wynne asked.

"No," Oghren said, sounding slightly exasperated, "no, there _was_ a _thaig_ here. The Ortan Thaig. Bownammar is north and west of here, but that's not important. Or at least, I _hope_ it isn't."

"And it's imperative that Bownammar remain unimportant because...?" Myranda let her voice trail off.

"The City of the Dead is known as the Dead Trenches since the darkspawn conquered it," the dwarf explained. "Much of the Legion was destroyed when the fortress fell."

The Grey Warden woman frowned. "I see," she said. "So if the Anvil is in this city... Bownammar... we're going to have to go into the middle of the hoard."

"That's about the way of it."

Her frown deepened. "Let's get going."

They followed what remained of the road, skirting around partial cave-ins only to find the way ahead completely blocked. In front of this collapse was the corpse of an ogre, which looked fairly fresh, though the blood had mostly dried. Around the corpse were more corpses: five spiders, bigger than those they had seen in the Brecilian Forest. The appearance of these latter made Myranda whimper softly, though no one heard her except Alistair and Baby. A tunnel to the right seemed to be the only exit, and broken webs were hanging from the top like wispy icicles.

Myranda looked around the others, knowing that all but one knew her anxiety. Somewhat to her surprise, it was Sten who offered some brusque but placating words.

"You have proven you can fight them from a distance, Warden," he said. "Stay with Leliana and the mage." That said, he led the way into the tunnel.

Myranda looked at Leliana, stunned as the others drifted after the qunari into the tunnel. But the redhead only smiled.

"Bows up!" she said, holding her bow toward the Grey Warden.

The blonde returned the smile, lifting her own bow to tap the top against the other woman's before stepping into the tunnel after Alistair, the brontos lumbering complacently along behind.

Almost immediately they heard hissing from up ahead, and a cold shiver crawled down Myranda's spine at the sound. In the light from a fireball provided by Morrigan that incinerated three of the creatures, she saw that there were about five more. She managed to get off one arrow into a spider that was attacking Alistair, watching in horror as it turned to her and as if to rush her, but the distraction gave the other Warden a chance to cut the beast down. She smiled a little as he lifted his sword toward her, nodding slightly.

The rest of the tunnel was clear, though Myranda's blood tingled with the sense of approaching darkspawn. A glance at Alistair confirmed that he felt it as well. The reason for the tingle stood near the far end of a cavern room: an ogre was fighting off four or five giant spiders. If the darkspawn behemoth saw or sensed the two Wardens, it was too preoccupied to charge them. Unfortunately, though it knocked one of huge arachnids into the wall and stomped on another with a sickening crunch, a third sank its fangs into it and killed it.

The survivors apparently scanned their surroundings and spied the group, scurrying toward them to add them to their meal. A fireball from Morrigan reduced these to ashes before they could get close. The group started into the room and Myranda barely managed to bite back her scream of terror as six more of the monsters descended upon them. She cowered behind the lead bronto, ashamed but not really caring as she peaked around the beast to keep an eye on the battle. Five were cut down while the sixth turned and scurried down another corridor. Oghren started to charge after it, but stopped when Myranda called a halt.

"What are you waitin' on?" he demanded, turning on the Grey Warden woman as she stepped cautiously forward. "We've got the sodding thing runnin' scared!"

"No... it _wants_ us to follow it."

"They aren't that smart," the dwarf grunted.

Myranda shook her head. "I'm not putting anything past these monsters."

"The Warden may have a point," Sten said, causing Myranda to blink at him in surprise. "We foolishly stepped into an ambush before. This is not to be repeated."

That the qunari agreed with her caused the rest of the group pause, and they proceeded down the corridor in a more cautious manner. The spider did indeed seem to be waiting for them at the end of the tunnel, turning and skittering into the room beyond. At this they crept forward even more cautiously, trying not to make too much noise.

When they reached the end, Alistair looked carefully around the corner into the cavern room beyond. "As you thought," he said quietly to Myranda. "Giant spiders."

"A lot?"

"About twelve." He looked back at her. "Plus one that's bigger than the others."

Myranda paled. "Bigger?"

He nodded. "Bigger."

"How much bigger?"

"About three times larger than the others."

Myranda felt all the blood leave her face. "Really?" she whimpered.

"Yup."

"'Twould be the queen," Morrigan supplied. "The breeding female that supplies the new generation. She shall be most treacherous."

"Bah," Oghren grunted. "Let's just get in there and kill them." He looked over at Baby. "Let's go, dog."

The large mabari barked and ran after the dwarf as he barreled into the cavern. The hissing of spider silk soon followed as Sten and Zevran quickly entered the cavern room with Leliana, who was shouldering her bow in favor of her daggers. Morrigan stepped around the corner as well, gathering a large fireball in her hands.

Alistair looked back at Myranda. "Stay here," he said.

She nodded. "No problem. _Please_ be careful."

He grinned. "I'll be right back." With that he turned and rushed into the cavern room. He attacked the largest spider viciously, but was quickly overwhelmed as it knocked him backward. Fangs rapped sharply on the metal shield as the monster tried to get to him. Suddenly it shrieked and backed off of him, and as it turned around he was startled to see an arrow protruding from its abdomen. He looked up to see Myranda sighting along another arrow, aiming carefully before letting loose into the large spider as it crawled up a silver thread toward the ceiling. "Myranda!"

"Get the others!" she shouted to him. "I'll stay on the purple one!" She glanced over at Wynne. "Don't let them get too close."

"Don't worry," the older woman said before downing a small bottle of lyrium. "I don't like them any more than you do."

Though the spider queen was difficult to pin down, the group finally managed to slay her and her offspring. When the room was clear, Myranda picked her way carefully around the curled up corpses, whimpering every time the brontos crunched one noisily underfoot. They traveled through another short tunnel to another cave and were halfway across when a young dwarven man of about twenty suddenly ran out of a nearby tunnel, waving his arms wildly at them.

"There's nothing for you here!" he shrieked. "It's mine! I've claimed it!"

"Who are you?" Myranda called. "What are you doing down here?"

"You've come to take my claim!" he yelled. "You surfacers are all alike: thieving scoundrels! Well, I found it first!"

Oghren snorted in distaste. "He's a bloody scavenger, good as sodding gone."

"Begone, you!" the younger dwarf said. "You'll bring the dark ones back, you will! They'll crunch your bones!"

"What's the matter with him?" Myranda asked, eyes narrowed. She could swear she sensed something, but her senses had been tingling since they descended into the darkness.

"Word has it you can only survive down here by eating the darkspawn dead," Oghren muttered, a statement that immediately drew the blonde woman's attention.

"Why would they do that?"

"It brings the taint," Oghren explained. "Turns their brains to sewage, but it hides them from the darkspawn."

The two Grey Wardens exchanged a look, and Myranda's anxiety must have been obvious, because Alistair smiled reassuringly at her.

"Poor creature!" Wynne said. "Such are the lengths to which our survival instinct drives us."

"It's my claim, not yours!" the young dwarf insisted. "Crunch your bones!" He screeched then and ran back down the corridor.

The reason for the screech descended from the ceiling seconds later, and Myranda screamed in terror as one of the giant spiders dropped in front of her. She barely noticed that she drew her sword and cut the thing to shreds, waving her blade around wildly for several minutes until it rapped loudly against Alistair's shield. She looked up at him and blinked before an embarrassed look crossed her face.

"Sorry," she muttered.

"We have to talk about you trying to kill me," he teased.

Baby barked, seemingly with laughter.

Myranda pulled her sword back and sheathed it. "It isn't on purpose, you know." She looked around at the others, who were standing amidst an unsettling number of spider corpses, staring at her with varying levels of amusement. "Right," she said, clearing her throat. "Let's go after the boy, shall we?"

She led the way down the corridor where the dwarven young man had disappeared, stopping when a metal box landed at her feet after apparently being thrown. She motioned for the others to stay before waving for Oghren to follow, hearing Alistair's footsteps and Baby's padding trailing along behind her as a matter of course.

The young dwarf hurled something else at them, but it bounced harmlessly off the shield Alistair placed between it and Myranda. "Go away!" he screeched. "This is mine! I drove out the crawlers!"

Myranda put a hand on Alistair's arm to lower the shield. "Is this Branka's campsite?" she asked Oghren.

"Sure seems that way. See the marks on the floor?" he asked, pointing. "There were a lot of people and fires here once."

"It's mine!" the dwarven young man raged madly, picking up a rusty knife. "I'm the one who found it. Now it's mine! Only I gets to plunder its riches!"

Myranda shook her head as Alistair started to reach for his sword. "No blades," she whispered, holding up a placating hand to the young dwarf as she stepped slowly toward him. "I'm not here to steal anything," she murmured, "or to hurt you. I promise."

The young man watched her, his anger receding, though the madness remained. "Pretty lady," he muttered. "Pretty eyes, pretty hair... smells like the steam of burning water, blue as the deepest rock..." His voice trailed off, his mouth forming a twisted, mad grin when Myranda smiled gently at him. "So... the pretty lady won't take anything from Ruck? You won't take Ruck's shiny worms and pretty rocks?"

"I won't take anything," she promised. "None of us will. I just want to talk."

The dwarven young man blinked as if talking was a new concept for him... which perhaps it was. "Oh. Ruck not mind that, maybe." He looked at the knife in his hand, glancing sheepishly at the blonde woman before tossing it guiltily away like a child caught doing something wrong.

Myranda continued to smile gently at him as she waved the others into the room. "So your name is Ruck?" she asked, kneeling nearby.

"Ruck not pretty name," he said, still looking guilty about threatening her with the rusty knife. "Not pretty like lady. Ruck is small and ugly and twisted."

"I think I met your mother. Is her name Filda?"

Ruck's eyes snapped up to her "N-n-n-no," he stammered. "No Filda. No mother! No warm blanket and stew and pillow and soft words!" His voice rose as he spoke to a near shout. "Ruck doesn't deserve good memories! No, no, no, no, no!"

"Easy," Myranda murmured. "It's all right. Tell me how you ended up here."

"Sh-she did not know... know what I did," Ruck said, on the edge of a frantic panic. "I was very, very, very, very angry and then someone was dead. They wanted to send Ruck to the mines!" He shook his head wildly. "If I went to the mines, sh-she would know. _Everyone_ would know. So I came here, instead." His mouth twisted into another mad grin and he chuckled. "Once you eat... once you takes in the darkness... you not miss the light so much." His grin became almost vulgar then. "You know, do you not?" he murmured darkly.

Myranda's eyes widened in surprise and slight horror.

"Ruck sees, yes," the young dwarf murmured with a chuckle, sidling closer to her. "He sees the darkness inside you."

She stood up sharply, unnerved, putting a hand out when Baby growled deeply in his throat. She was a Grey Warden, and the young man practically a darkspawn. Wardens could sense darkspawn and vice versa, but to have the fact murmured like an intimate secret caused a wave of revulsion to rise in her throat. "You have to tell your mother you're alive," she said, changing the subject.

"No, no, no!" Ruck cried. "She cannot..." He nearly threw himself at Myranda's feet. "She remembers a boy, a little boy, with bright eyes and a hammer and she _cannot see this_!"

The blonde was shocked at his venomous insistence, though she understood it. She looked down into Ruck's dark, mad eyes as he looked up into her face.

"Swear... promise... _vow_ you won't tell!"

"Would you rather she think you're dead?" Wynne asked from nearby.

"Yes!" Ruck cried, nodding vigorously. "Yes. T-tell the mother Ruck is dead." He wandered around grabbing at the air as if plucking the fragments of a story from it. "He's dead and his bones are rotting in the crawlers' webs and she should _never_ look again."

Myranda frowned a little before she inclined her head slightly. "All right. I'll tell her you died bravely."

The young tainted dwarf ran over and threw his arms around Myranda's waist, nuzzling her. "Pretty lady is like Mother, yes," he said, nearly overcome with joy. "Too good, too pretty for the darkness!"

"Er... yes. Thank you." Myranda patted the lad's head and tried to step away, only to be held fast. "I promise to tell her you're dead, but you'll have to let go of me."

"Oh yes! Yes, pretty lady!"

Myranda almost stumbled with how quickly he released her, stepping back until another arm, this one strong and familiar, wrapped around her. "May I ask you a few questions, Ruck?" she asked.

Ruck nodded vigorously again, with the enthusiasm of a pup. "I will answer your questions, pretty lady. Anything you wish."

"Did you find anything unusual at this camp?"

Ruck shrugged. "Bits of things, but only bits," he said. "The crawlers took almost everything. They takes things of steel and things of paper. They takes the shinies and the words."

"Paper and words?" Oghren repeated. "That sounds like someone was taking notes."

"The crawlers bring to the great nest," Ruck said, "the nest they makes for the eggs. They puts the shinies inside, they do."

Myranda fought back her terrified whimper and forcefully pushed the idea of a massive nest of giant spiders out of her brain. "When did you arrive here?"

"Too long ago," the tainted dwarf muttered. "I must think... five years? Six? Ruck no longer remembers the smells and sights of the city."

"How did you survive here?"

"When the dark ones were here, I kept to the shadows. They don't look in the shadows, not if you're quiet. Not if you eat their flesh."

"That's disgusting!" Leliana said. "I'm not certain whether to fear or pity him."

Morrigan shrugged. "Well, if you need to dispose of darkspawn bodies after the Blight..."

"Excepting that darkspawn flesh is poisonous," Myranda said.

Ruck grinned maniacally. "Then the dark ones think you're one of them. They leave you alone. But now they're gone."

"Do you know where the 'dark ones' went?"

"I thinks they went south, pretty lady. Far, far to the south."

Myranda looked back at Alistair. "Ostagar," they murmured.

"The dark master calls them south with his _beautiful_ voice. So much joy when he awoke!" Ruck swooned.

"He must be talking about the archdemon," Alistair murmured.

"After the dark master awoke, he called his children and they all went. I wanted to go, too, and gaze upon his beauty..." the tainted dwarf's voice trailed off and he swooned again.

"Where is the dark master now?" Myranda asked. "Do you know?"

Ruck's face fell. "He stopped calling," he said. "I wish I could go see him, but Ruck..." he trembled a little. "No, no, Ruck-Ruck is a coward.

"But there are still giant spiders here, aren't there?" She didn't truly ask it as a question, and didn't really want to know the answer.

Ruck nodded. "The crawlers. They used to eat the smallest dark ones. Now the crawlers go hungry."

Myranda shuddered at the thought. "Thank you, Ruck," she said. "You've been most helpful."

"Enjoy your tainted mud, you poor sodding duster," Oghren said.

"We should at least put him out of his misery," Zevran added.

Ruck grinned at the elf. "Is not so bad. The dark and the burning keeps Ruck warm... warm like Mother's arms."

The assassin shook his head. "His mind is gone, and his body will soon follow. I have seen victims of poisoning in better shape."

"Ahhh!" Ruck screamed. "Don't hurt Ruck, no!"

"Stop," Myranda ordered when Zevran drew his dagger. "He's tainted, and that will kill him soon enough. He's a salvager, so maybe he has something we can trade."

"Pretty lady," Ruck said, clinging to her leg. "Pretty lady is good friend, yes. How can Ruck help the friend? Ruck has many things. He can give them, and you don't even have to give him shiny coins, no? Wait!" He rushed away and dug wildly through a pile of rubbish before coming back with a battered book that may have been a journal and handing it to her. "Ruck-Ruck saved this from the crawlers! Take it, take it!"

The blonde took the book carefully, leafing through the desiccated pages, until the text on one page caught her eye. "Listen to this," she said, turning to the others. "'We found evidence today that the Anvil of the Void was not built in the Ortan Thaig. We will go south, to the Dead Trenches. The Anvil is somewhere beyond. My soldiers tell me I am mad, that the Dead Trenches are crawling with darkspawn, that we will surely die before we find the Anvil... _if_ we find it.'" She looked around at them before returning her eyes to the page. "'I leave this here in case they're right. If I die in the Trenches, perhaps someone can yet walk past my corpse and retrieve the Anvil. For if it remains lost, so do we all. If I have not returned and Oghren yet lives,'" she glanced at the dwarf, "'tell him... No, what I have to say should be for his ears alone.'" She looked back at him to find him staring at her, looking dumbfounded.

"Branka was _thinking_ about me!" he said, awestruck, before a grin split his bearded face. "I knew she still cared! Old softie." He held this piece of news like a child with a cherished trinket for a few moments before regaining himself and looking back up at the Grey Warden woman. "Looks like the Dead Trenches is our next stop. The darkspawn nest there, but if that's where Branka went... that's where I'm going."

"And that's where we'll go." She closed the book, not daring now to read aloud the final words on the page: _"This is my farewell."_

 

That night, Myranda curled against Alistair's left side as they camped on the far side of a large underground river, insisting that he keep his shield over her. He held her close as he lounged against a stone pillar, his sword laying on the ground next to him within easy reach so he could kill anything that tried to attack her.

"I don't like that we have to go deeper into this place," she whispered.

"Because of the archdemon."

"Well, yes. But the spiders are probably bigger, too."

Alistair smiled. "Thus the shield."

"Thus, as you say, the shield."

He chuckled softly. "I'd tease you about it, but I'd probably get a knife in my ribs."

"I wouldn't knife you. Just... please don't."

"Don't worry, Myra. I won't let anything get to you."

She tightened her arms around him. "I'm glad you're with me," she murmured. "I'd probably die down here if it wasn't for you." She snuggled closer and smiled a little. "You're so nice to cuddle with, Ali-bear," she murmured, "though nicer without all the armor in the way."

"And without the clothing, hm?"

"I thought that went without saying."

He smiled, pulling her close and kissing her forehead. "Get some sleep, my dear."

Myranda closed her eyes, feeling safe in her lover's arms as she drifted off to sleep.


	35. Whispers in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The group wanders into the Dead Trenches, finds the Legion of the Dead, and discovers why there aren't very many women in the Grey Wardens.

**Chapter 35: Whispers in the Dark**

_"First day they come and catch everyone..."_

 

The trip to the Dead Trenches was a long and excruciating one. Myranda lost track of the days they spent wandering in the oppressive darkness, pushing deeper into the Deep Roads. The darkness seemed to affect all of them; even Leliana and Zevran lost their sparkle and charm.

There was one cavern through which they passed that the collective mood lightened: it had a faint glow about it, which seemed to be generated from the large, bluish veins that ran through the cavern walls. Oghren marveled at the lyrium deposit, and Wynne and Morrigan moved closer to the walls, running their fingertips lightly along the bluish stone. Myranda kept well clear of it, still remembering the frightening reaction she'd had in the Fade.

The two Grey Wardens themselves noticed how much stronger the pull in their blood became as they traveled further, and when they finally emerged from a tunnel into a massive room dominated by a huge crevasse, the pull was so strong that Myranda felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She held up her hand to halt the rest of the party, crooking her finger at Alistair as she strode forward to the edge of the ravine, looking carefully over the edge. Below them stood a sea of darkspawn, dotted with thousands of torches that lit their leathery features. "Look at them all," she said in horrified awe. "It's just like in our nightmares."

"Except we won't wake up from this one," Alistair said grimly. "This is real."

Suddenly a giant shape shot up into the air just in front of them, the gust of wind from its mighty wings knocking them both backwards.

"Maker's breath!" Alistair swore.

"What was that?" Myranda asked, looking around as she stood.

The sound of giant wings above them caused them both to look up. It looked remarkably like the High Dragon of Haven, but bigger, with protruding front fangs and white, apparently sightless eyes. The monster looked like any darkspawn: skeletal with grotesque growths on its body and on its leathery wings. It flew over them to land on a bridge before belching out a great wave of bluish fire over the horde.

Myranda felt her blood turn to ice in her veins as stared at the creature, her hand almost automatically threading into Alistair's elbow, stepping closer to him as he wrapped his arm protectively around her. She knew what the monster was. More importantly, she knew what it was doing. It rose onto its back legs and spat another ball of blue fire before crashing back down onto all fours, breathing great plumes of fire over the marching darkspawn. It then spread its wings and took off, flying over the column of evil that filled the ravine. They watched as the dragon faded down the bright, smoky tunnel, and a feeling of powerless dread swept through the blonde woman.

"Maker preserve us!" Wynne breathed as she walked up behind the two Grey Wardens. "What was that?"

"Ruck's beautiful dark master," Myranda said.

"The archdemon," Alistair clarified.

"Sending the darkspawn to the surface. The true Blight is about to begin." Myranda took a deep breath. "Come on. There's no time to lose. We have to find Branka and soon."

They made their way to the bridge, carefully avoiding the gouges caused by dragon when it landed. About halfway across, Myranda's blood tingled as a large group of darkspawn headed toward them. "Darkspawn!" she called, pulling her bow off her shoulder. "Careful!" She fitted an arrow to the string and let fly. The tingle in her blood suddenly grew stronger and her eyes snapped up from the genlock that was in her sights to see a massive hurlock bearing down on the group. "Alpha!" she shouted. She readied one of her arrows for the alpha, sending it toward the massive darkspawn only to miss when it suddenly slumped sideways.

It was at this point that she saw the small legion of heavily armored dwarves broke through the group of darkspawn from behind, helping the party cut them down in half the time. The commander of the dwarves called to his company to hold the line before he approached Myranda as the party regrouped around her.

" _Atrast vala_ , Grey Warden," he said. "I've never seen one of your kind in the Deep Roads."

Myranda lifted an eyebrow. "You know I am a Grey Warden?"

"I recognize a fighter of darkspawn," the dwarf told her. "It marks you. It's why we in the Legion of the Dead abandon our lives: so we can face them without fear... a sacrifice I understand the Wardens are familiar with."

"Ahh, the infamous Legion of the Dead," she said.

"We die in the eyes of our brothers so we can fight without fear. It offers redemption for the promise of the greatest sacrifice. That's all you need to know. To say more invites judgment. Or worse, imitation."

"An honor to at last run across you down here in this horrid darkness, ser."

"Kardol is my name," he said, holding out his hand, which the Grey Warden took and shook firmly.

"Myranda. And my fellow Warden Alistair," she said, gesturing to him.

The Legion commander nodded to the human man. "What do you want here, Warden?" he asked, turning back to Myranda.

"We need to find Paragon Branka."

Kardol blinked in shock as the Legion around him chuckled uncertainly. "Who put this dull idea in your head? We've got other things to worry about in Orzammar..." his voice trailed off as he watched the resigned look pass over the Grey Warden woman's face. "Ah. Now I see," he said before continuing with vicious contempt. "The _deep lords_ in the Assembly can't make up their minds, so the pretenders need added... _influence_." He lifted an eyebrow. "I get that right?"

Myranda nodded. "That's about it," she said.

The Legion commander sighed. "Warden, you've got your work cut out for you," he said. "Paragon Branka is dead, everyone with sense knows it. Past our line, the darkspawn kill everything."

Myranda heard Oghren take a breath as if to say something and held up her hand to cut off the comment. She looked over the other dwarf's head then toward the other side of the bridge and what looked like a massive door beyond. "Why hold here?" she asked. "Why not drive forward through the doors there?"

"I'd gladly lead an assault through the Dead Trenches," Kardol told her, "but without an ass in the throne, we have no orders. I won't take fool's gold from a pretender. You want to go digging blind, you go right ahead."

"I haven't been given much choice," Myranda said with a sigh. "A Blight is coming, I need allies, and I'll do what I must to gain them." She lifted an eyebrow. "I don't suppose I could interest you in helping us."

The dwarf chuckled darkly. "It's an odd tactic, recruiting from the frontline. The darkspawn pitch their camps in our tunnels between your 'Blights', you know. Give me a dwarven reason to go topside."

"Ever heard of the Anvil of the Void?" Alistair asked.

Kardol snorted, though without maliciousness. "Like dusters have heard of respect," he said. "Never seen it. And if it exists, it wasn't meant for me." He shrugged. "But if you're looking for Paragons, you may as well look for the Anvil. And endless lyrium."

Myranda smirked. "I'll let you know if we find any of the three."

The Legion commander let a smirk of his own cross his lips. "Good luck, Grey Warden."

The blonde lifted two fingers and placed them to her brow in a salute before waving the rest of her party to follow as she continued across the bridge toward the massive set of doors, taller than anything any of them had ever seen. Seeing no way to open them—and no smaller door set into the larger ones—they spread out to see if there was another way in.

It was Wynne who found the alternate way inside via a windy, twisty tunnel in the wall to the left. Halfway down the tunnel, however, they ran into five darkspawn, the two hurlocks rushing them while the three genlocks further back fired arrows into the party. While the two hurlocks were quickly struck down along with one of the genlocks, the two survivors turned and ran down the tunnel.

Myranda recognized a lead-in to an ambush when she saw it. "Fall back!" she called. "Everybody fall back!" A florid curse left her lips when Zevran followed the small darkspawn around the corner. "Come on," she said, running after the elf. She sprinted ahead with Baby, turning the corner into the room beyond to find that the elf assassin had been overwhelmed and, by the looks of things, terribly wounded. She spat another curse, pulling her knife and sending it into the hurlock that had lifted its sword to run the elf through. She dropped her bow and drew her blades, crashing into the center of the group of darkspawn in an attempt to push them back, failing until Sten charged in next to her and physically pushed them away.

They continued to hack through the group of tainted creatures, Alistair running his sword through the last hurlock and blinking when the point seemed to appear a foot above the blade. He looked at the blade in confusion, pulling it out of the darkspawn to have the higher point withdraw as well. He looked at the sword, thoroughly baffled before looking up to see Myranda looking up as well, with the same look of absolute bewilderment on her face. Realization dawned at the same time and they grinned at each other.

"I think we work well together," he told her.

"I would say so," she replied, leaning forward a little and kissing him quickly when he leaned forward as well. She looked back at Zevran then, who was sitting up with some help as Wynne continued to kneel over him, her hands glowing white. "Come on," she muttered, sheathing her blades as she walked back over to the elf assassin. "Well," she said. "Interesting strategy, Zevran." She rolled the 'r' in his name to make sure she had his attention.

He laughed a little. "I admit, it was not the smartest thing I have done."

"Are you all right?"

"Yes," he said, managing to get to his feet after the healer pulled her hands away, "yes, I believe so."

"Good." Myranda then unceremoniously cuffed him on the back of the head, almost sending him face-first into the stone. "You idiot!" she shouted. "What were you thinking, running off like that? Are you _trying_ to get yourself killed?"

Zevran rubbed the back of his head, surprised at the strength of her emotion. He hadn't truly believed that she cared that much for him... that his death would matter to her. Certainly she considered him a friend—a title he was proud to wear—but he hadn't thought that the friendship was so deep. It was new for him: to have a friend... a _true_ friend... who took an interest in his wellbeing. And the only word he could use to describe the strange emotion the concept caused was stunned. "My apologies, Myranda," he said softly. "I had no desire to cause you distress... never would I willingly do so."

"Well... just make sure you don't do it again. I'd like to leave here with the same number of people I came in with." She retrieved her bow from where she had dropped it before looting the corpses of the darkspawn, relieving the dead genlocks of their arrows among some other things, including some coin.

Their only two options, as the bridge opposite the massive doors was demolished, were two doors: one straight ahead and one that seemed to lead to a side room on their right. The side room almost certainly leading to a dead end, Myranda decided to explore that way first. The room beyond was some sort of crypt, with a pair of spiders fighting off three darkspawn. One of the latter looked up when the door opened and shot a blast of magic toward them and they all managed to hurl themselves out of the way of the blast, letting the fireball explode into the wall behind them.

Myranda's fall was broken mostly by Alistair's body as he held her tightly against him, shielding her bodily from the blast. In the next instant she was pushing him up toward the doorway. "Go," she said.

Given the tight quarters, only Alistair, Oghren and Zevran made it inside and killed the darkspawn and the remaining spider before the others could reach them. Myranda stayed back, carefully looking between the sarcophagi for trinkets she could salvage.

The other door led into another crypt, with a trap just inside that Myranda quickly set to disarming. Halfway through the work, a crossbow bolt cleaved into her right shoulder below her collarbone, knocking her backwards.

"Myranda!" Leliana cried.

"Cover me!" she said, sitting up and glancing at Alistair as a second bolt rapped against his shield, which he set in front of her. Arrows whistled over their heads from Leliana's bow and Myranda grimaced as she worked the mechanism, breathing a sigh of relief when it finally disarmed with a loud click. "Go!" she said, looking over her shoulder at the others. "We're clear." She looked back at Alistair when he didn't move, even when the others surged by them. "Go, darling."

He shook his head. "I'm staying here and protecting you."

" _Go_. I'll be all right, just don't let them get through." She gave him a gentle push. "Go."

He hesitated, then stood and trotted ahead, leaving the other Warden in Wynne's hands.

Myranda followed a few minutes later, rubbing her shoulder as she rounded the corner, picking through the corpses for loot. The hallway ended in a dead end with two branches. The last sounds of battle were just dying down in the hall on the right while three genlocks lay dead at the end of the opposite hall, thanks no doubt to Zevran and Leliana, who were picking over the corpses. Myranda stood at the junction, looking at the battle and then the other hallway as her companions wandered away from the scene. "Did they tell you to take this side?" she asked Alistair.

"No... why?"

A loud click drew their attention to the other hallway where Leliana was kneeling by a large pressure plate trap. "I think she's referring to this trap," she said.

Myranda nodded. "I was."

They moved past the deactivated trap down the longer hallway, which would have been a dead end because of a collapse except for the hole tunneling into the right wall.

They started down the corridor when Baby barked suddenly and ran ahead, howling as he turned the corner before the hissing of spider silk alerted them all to what the mabari had smelled. Myranda stopped dead as the others surged forward, following slowly after them. She gulped as she rounded the corner and saw the eight arachnids, managing to pull back on her bowstring to put an arrow into one. Her eyes widened in terror when it turned toward her only to be cut down by Sten's sword. She lifted her bow toward the qunari in acknowledgement, a motion he returned. When the insects were dead, Myranda picked her way carefully around them, trying to control the cold shudders that coursed through her.

The tunnel circled around the collapse and took them back into the hallway. They ran into no more resistance down the rest of the hallway, which emptied into what had once been a large reception room. Myranda stopped in front of the open doorway. "I don't like this," she said. "There are darkspawn in there somewhere... six, Alistair?"

The other Warden nodded. "Six or eight... one's more powerful than the others."

Oghren grunted. "We could take 'em."

"I don't want to walk into an ambush," Myranda said.

"It would be an fair location for one," Zevran agreed.

"Remain here," Morrigan said. She started to gather magic in her hands before turning back to Myranda. "'Twould be best if you looked away."

A fearful look crossed the blonde woman's face before she quickly dropped her face into her hands, trying not to shudder too violently at the horrible hissing or the clicking of eight legs creeping forward. Silence descended and still Myranda kept her eyes covered, jumping nearly three feet at the sudden hand on her shoulder.

"Sorry," Alistair's voice murmured before he pulled her against him.

She whimpered softly as she rested her forehead against his armored shoulder, keeping her hands over her eyes. She fought back another shudder as the hissing clicks returned, not daring to look up until she heard Morrigan's voice.

"There is a large cave that has been hollowed out of the far wall where eight darkspawn are camped. One does appear to be more powerful, but the power is physical and not magical."

"No emissaries, then," Leliana said. "That's a relief if nothing else!"

"Thank you," Myranda said. "But did it have to be a spider?"

The witch shrugged. "'Tis the best disguise in such a place," she said reasonably.

"Yes... yes, I know," the blonde said with a heavy sigh.

They managed to rout the darkspawn and made use of the ready fires for their camp, Sten and Oghren standing guard while the others slept fitfully. A few hours later, they crossed the large room to the open doorway, around the tomb inside and through another doorway leading to a long bridge. Myranda paused on one side, eyeing the narrow passage warily.

Alistair looked at her. "Myranda?

"Forgive me if I've developed a general mistrust of bridges."

He smiled a little. "Come on, darling."

Her fear was not unfounded, however, as eight shrieks swooped down upon them from the ether when they were halfway across. One nearly pushed Sten over the edge, and only Myranda's shout saved the qunari. They exchanged a quick look and a nod of acknowledgement after the battle then set off without a word along the bridge again.

The room beyond was by far the strangest and most foul they had yet seen: an altar appeared to be set up at the far side, stained with blood and draped with entrails. It was in this room that they were attacked not by spiders but by undead monsters, brought to life by the darkspawn necromancer behind the altar. All were taken down—though the skeletons were more difficult than the emissary itself.

When it was over, Alistair stood in the middle of the carnage, looking around as Myranda walked toward him after looting the emissary's corpse. "Didn't we already fight these at Redcliffe?"

"Probably not these precisely," Leliana said, "but some very like them."

"I just hope that's the last of them," Myranda said, stepping through the doorway and into the next tunnel. "I've seen enough of those hideous things to last me three lifetimes."

_"First day they come, and catch everyone."_

Myranda stopped suddenly and looked around.

"Somethin' wrong?" Oghren asked gruffly.

"No, I..." she shook her head. "No. It's nothing. Come on," she said as she continued down the tunnel.

_"Second day they beat us and eat some for meat."_

Myranda stopped and looked around again. "Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?" Leliana asked.

"I... keep thinking I hear a voice. A woman's voice." She looked around warily. "Maybe I'm just imagining it." She started again down the passage, though her pace was slower now.

_"Third day the men are all gnawed on again."_

"All right," Alistair said. "That is officially creepy."

"You heard it?" Myranda asked, turning to him.

"I heard it, too," Wynne said. "What is it?"

"I don't know."

_"Fourth day we wait, and fear for our fate."_

"Hello?" Myranda called. "Is someone there?" She listened for several minutes as the echoes slowly faded, but the eerie, disembodied voice did not answer. "That's not Branka's voice, is it?" she asked Oghren.

"Nah," the dwarf replied. "That ain't her. Believe me, I'd've said so if it was."

"Come on," Myranda said. "Maybe we'll find the owner of the voice at the end of this tunnel."

They continued down the tunnel silently as the voice echoed around them, their nervousness palatable.

_"Fifth day they return, and it's another girl's turn."_

_"Sixth day her screams we hear in our dreams."_

_"Seventh day she grew as in her mouth they spew."_

Myranda found herself sidestepping to walk closer to Alistair. "This is really starting to make me nervous," she murmured.

"At least it isn't a spider," he said. "They don't talk."

"Yes, which means they also can't chant a disturbing set of rhymes."

_"Eighth day we hated as she is violated."_

Myranda shuddered. "I think we have officially reached a new level of creepy."

"What do you think it means?" Leliana asked nervously.

"'Tis best not to ask questions the answers to which you have no desire to learn," Morrigan warned.

"I think Morrigan's right," the blonde woman agreed. "Don't ask if you don't want to know. And I don't want to know."

_"Ninth day she grins... and devours her kin."_

At this ominous turn in the recitation the group looked sidelong at one another, the women especially looking nervous. Even Baby whined with apprehension.

_"Now she does feast, as she's become the beast."_

By this time the group had reached the end of the tunnel, and Myranda stepped hesitantly into the room beyond. It was strange beyond compare: like the altar room they had passed through before, this room too was filled with odd growths—like organs pulled from a large body—as well as the bodies of dead dwarven women. In the midst of this macabre array knelt a dwarf woman, repeating the sinister chant they had heard in the tunnel over and over. The blonde glanced around at the others before slowly stepping further into the room, trying to avoid stepping on anything unpleasant.

The dwarf woman stood slowly and turned as Myranda approached. She appeared to be suffering from a dangerously high fever, and her deathly pale skin was broken only by dark blotches. "What is this?" she asked in a detached voice, raising cloudy, listless eyes to her. "A human? Bland and unlikely."

"Blessed Stone," Oghren said quietly. "That's Hespith!"

"Feeding time brings only kin and clan." Hespith shook her head. "I am cruel to myself. You are a dream of strangers' faces and open doors."

"I'm not a dream," Myranda said. "I can help you."

"No," Hespith said. "No you... can't. There's nothing left. There's body and there's hope... and both are turning."

Myranda looked at Oghren and then at Alistair.

"They come. They... they vomit. They violate, and they chant. They scream." The dwarf woman spoke this last word as a horrified whisper. "Oh, how they scream.... Then the change comes."

"Change?"

But Hespith only shook her head. "First day, they come and catch everyone."

A cold chill crept down Myranda's spine merely at the start of the hideous rhyme. "What is that chant?"

"It's what I've seen," the dwarf woman said. "What I will become. I force it into verse so it is fantasy, unreal."

"Fear for our fate," Wynne murmured.

"'We hated as she is violated,'" Leliana added in a horrified whisper.

"So... the rhyme?" Myranda asked.

"That's the only place I can hide," Hespith said, "because they... make me... they make... me... eat." She pronounced each of the last three words forcefully. "And then...." She wavered for several long moments, mindless of the uneasy anticipation gripping the group. "All I could do was wish Laryn went first," she said finally. "I wished it upon her so that... I would be spared. But I had to watch. I... had to see the change." Her dulled eyes lifted to the Grey Warden woman. "How do you endure that? How did Branka endure?"

"You're from Branka's house, then?" Myranda asked. To her surprise, Hespith seemed to become agitated at the question.

"D-do not talk of Branka," she ordered before adding in a whisper, "of what she did." She shook her head slowly. "Ancestors preserve us... forgive me. I was her captain... and I didn't stop her. Her lover, and... I could not turn her! Forgive her." Again a fierce irritation seemed to sweep through the dwarven woman. "But no... she cannot... be... forgiven. Not for what she did. Not... for what she... has become!"

Myranda shot a questioning look at Oghren, who offered no explanation. "What did she do, Hespith? What did Branka do?"

"I... I will not speak of her!" Hespith declared. "What she did... of what _we_ have become! I will _not turn_!" she yelled in outrage. "I will not become what I have seen! Not Laryn! Not... Branka!" She suddenly pushed through the group, taking off toward the open double doors behind them and into another, larger room

"Hespith!" Myranda called. "Come back!" She took off after the dwarven woman, the others following quickly behind her. She skidded to a halt after she pounded through the doors, looking around for the blighted dwarf only to find she had vanished. "Damn! Where did she go?"

Almost in answer to this question, Hespith's voice echoed through the room, though the source was still invisible: "She became obsessed. That _is_ the word, but it is not strong enough. Blessed Stone, there was nothing left in her but the Anvil."

Myranda looked around the room before her tingling blood alerted her to the massive darkspawn headed their way.

"Ogre!" Alistair warned, drawing his sword.

"Make that two," Zevran amended, noting the second monster lumbering toward them.

"Because one isn't bad enough!" Myranda said, pulling her bow and sending an arrow into the eye of one of the ogres.

The group split apart to deal with the two large darkspawn, taking them both down at about the same time, the two Grey Wardens repeating their strategy from the Tower of Ishal. After the two were vanquished, Hespith's voice again echoed through the room.

"We tried to escape, but they found us. They took us all... turned us."

"Into what?" Leliana called. She received no answer.

The room had two other doors besides the one the group had just exited. The middle door looked quite ominous and though she was loathe to do so, Myranda stepped forward to open it. It was to her great relief that she found it locked.

The third door, however, was not and opened to reveal some sort of shrine. Ghostly spirits, not unlike what Wynne, Leliana, and the Wardens had seen in the Gauntlet, appeared to be standing guard between the room's massive pillars, while a stone altar stood at the far end of the room.

"Bownammar," Oghren breathed as they stepped inside. "I thought it would've fallen into dust by now."

"Oh, I can just imagine how grand this fortress must have been," Wynne said, "before the darkspawn took it."

Zevran ran an appreciative hand over one of the marble columns. "How many such places have been lost to the darkspawn, I wonder? Dwarven marvels throughout Thedas, all lost to the shadows."

As the others stared in various levels of awe at the room around them, Myranda, with Alistair and Baby behind her, strode toward the altar at the far side of the room. Careful examination revealed a small, secret compartment, which held a heavy key.

"The key to the other door?" Alistair murmured.

"Yes, I'd say so. And as that's the only obvious way to proceed..." her voice trailed off as she reached in and took the key from the compartment.

Almost immediately the sounds of battle erupted behind them. Turning, they saw that the rest of the group was being attacked by the spirits that had stood placidly by before. Myranda slammed the altar's hidey hole shut again before racing after her dog and her lover to help fight off the spirits, but it was over before she could reach them, thanks to a few spells from Morrigan and Wynne.

They had just left the shrine when Hespith's voice again echoed around them.

"The men they kill. They're merciful. The women they want. They want to touch, to mold, to change until you are _filled_ with them."

Myranda did her best to ignore the implications of the last statement and strode back to the ominous door, which unlocked to the key she had recovered from the shrine's altar. She pulled the massive door open with Sten's help, the hinges squeaking loudly in protest. They had only just crossed the threshold when Hespith's voice came again from the shadows.

"They took Laryn. They made her _eat_ the others, our friends. She tore off her husband's face and drank his blood."

The last three words were spoken in a horrified whisper, and the group tightened up, staying closer to one another as they walked down the hallway, avoiding the grotesque fleshy sacks that lined the walls and seemed to grow out of the floor. Alistair started to reach for Myranda's hand only to find she had had the same idea, taking his hand and gripping it tightly.

"The deeper we go, the less I like this," she whispered.

"Feels like there are darkspawn everywhere," he breathed. "But we haven't seen any since we fought those two ogres!"

"Like I said."

Again Hespith's voice came to them in the dark: "And while she ate, she grew. She swelled and turned gray... and she smelled like them! They remade her in _their_ image. Then _she_ made more of _them_!"

"Be cautious," Morrigan warned. "No doubt some great and powerful monster lies ahead."

Myranda stared at the floor as her brain worked furiously on Hespith's revelations. The women they take—'they' obviously being the darkspawn—to use and change. Into what? The darkspawn had fed the dwarven women, Hespith and the girl Laryn, the flesh of not only their kin, but obviously the tainted flesh of the darkspawn as well... Hespith's advanced case of Blight sickness made that obvious. But the darkspawn kept the women alive—feeding them and 'molding' them and violating them... but to what purpose?

She blinked as the horrifying answer came to her: women were breeders. The darkspawn changed and violated the women they caught for the same reason that any woman was violated, willing or not.

A loud roar caused her to look up, and she immediately recoiled in fear and horror at the creature before her. The monster was giant and obese with several pairs of teats and dozens of large tentacles that waved in agitation at the appearance of the group. Too large to move, the tentacles were obviously the creature's only means of attack. All around it were hundreds of fleshy sacs like those they had seen in the tunnel and elsewhere, while hundreds more were rent open.

"Broodmother!" Hespith's voice echoed ominously throughout the cave.

"Holy Maker!" Leliana swore.

"Not to worry," Zevran said. "As long as we stay out of range of the tentacles we shall be safe, yes?"

At that moment, the floor in front of them exploded and a giant tentacle waved toward them, passing over their ducked heads and into the wall with a resounding thud, chasing the group into the room.

"Of course we wouldn't be that lucky," Myranda muttered, pulling her bow from her shoulder before she and Leliana set to sending a rain of arrows into the monster. Morrigan quickly shifted into a cloud of insects that swarmed around the broodmother's head, distracting it as the men rushed forward to slice into the creature with swords, daggers and axe. It was more difficult than any of them expected, given the seemingly never-ending tentacles and the toughness of the monster's skin. The broodmother also swatted at them, managing at one point to grab hold of Alistair.

" _No_!" Myranda screamed, running toward the obese monster, dodging tentacles that erupted from the floor.

"Myranda!" Leliana cried.

"Stay with Wynne!" the Grey Warden ordered. She pulled an arrow from her quiver and ran her tongue over one edge of the fletching. She placed the arrow in the string and slid to a stop, loosing the arrow. It flew straight into the Broodmother's hand, causing the creature to shriek and drop Alistair to the floor.

Alistair rolled as he hit the ground, ending up on his back, staring up at Myranda as she stood over him, her sword drawn, facing off with the monster.

"If you want him you'll have to kill me first," she said.

The broodmother seemed to consider her for moment before giving an inhuman scream. One of the tentacles lifted and would have knocked her violently away had her feet not been suddenly swept out from under her.

The blonde woman landed hard on the stone floor, a grunt of pain escaping her. "Ow..."

"Sorry, my love."

Myranda looked over at Alistair then. "I'll get you for that later."

They looked up and rolled away from each other, out of the way of the tentacle that slammed to the floor where they had been the moment before. They scrambled to their feet, Myranda retreating back to proper longbow range while Alistair charged forward.

"Now stay away from it!" he called to her.

"So don't let it grab you again!" She stood very still, aiming carefully along her arrow before releasing it to ensure a critical shot. "If it does, I'll cut out its heart myself!"

"Myranda!"

She turned at Wynne's shout and only managed to throw up her bow to block the sword strike from the hurlock behind her. The blade clashed loudly against the metal handgrip and Myranda lashed out with a vicious kick, causing the creature to stumble backwards. She dropped the bow as she drew her sword again, plunging it into the darkspawn's chest before slicing her dagger across its throat. "Cursed creatures!" she swore, retrieving her bow and looping it over her shoulder before going after the next hurlock.

The addition of the 'children' fighting to protect their 'mother' made the battle much more difficult, but the tide soon turned in their favor.

The last of the hurlocks was locked in hand-to-hand combat with Myranda when the broodmother finally died, cut down by a brutal swing from Oghren's war axe. The hurlock bellowed with rage, overpowering the Grey Warden woman to knock her to the ground. Her sword was knocked away when she lifted it in her defense. She may have been cut down on the spot except for Baby leaping over her, crashing into the darkspawn to knock it back while his teeth tore out its throat.

Alistair trotted over to his lover, kneeling next to her as she slowly sat up. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine." She reached over and patted Baby when the dog padded over to her, smiling when he licked her face. "Thank you, Baby."

The dog barked happily, his stubby tail wagging wildly.

She looked back up at Alistair and smirked. "Nice move earlier, by the way."

He smiled a little. "A beautiful woman taught me that a few months ago."

"Be careful... she may turn you into a rogue."

His smile faded then. "Are you sure you're all right?"

"Nothing to worry about. I'll probably just have some bruises in some rather embarrassing places." She took his hand, letting him pull her to her feet before leaning forward to murmur into his ear, "Which means I'll be on top for a while."

Even in the dimness of the cavern she could see his blush.

She giggled and looked over at Wynne when the elder mage walked over.

"Are you all right, dear?"

"Yes. Yes, I'm fine. Thank you." Her smile faded as she looked back at the dead broodmother. "Hideous!" she said, a violent shudder raking through her body.

"That's where they come from."

The group looked around to see Hespith standing on a ledge above their battleground, looking down at them.

"That's why they hate us... that's why they need us. That's why they take us... that's why they feed us."

Myranda glanced at the hideous thing, her stomach threatening to revolt at the thought before returning her eyes to the tainted dwarven woman.

"But the true abomination... is not that it occurred, but that it was _allowed_. Branka... my love...." She wavered for a moment. "The Stone has punished me, dream-friend. I am dying of something worse than death: betrayal." She turned then and was gone.

"Hespith!" Myranda called. "Hespith!"

There was no answer. Nothing but the eerie quiet.

The blonde woman frowned and turned her emerald gaze back to the broodmother. "I think I understand now," she said softly, "why there aren't many women in the Grey Wardens. Eventually we turn into this."

Alistair looked at her. "You think so?"

"You heard Hespith: the women they want. This must be why. We... they turn us into this and we birth more of them."

"No woman deserves to be put through this horror," Wynne said.

"And Branka apparently allowed it to happen. She escaped and abandoned everyone else... including her own lover... to this." Myranda looked at Alistair then. "Promise me something."

"Anything."

"Kill me before you let them take me... before I turn into this."

He frowned, horrified at first by her request, then looked back at the broodmother and nodded. "I won't let them take you from me," he said.

The blonde returned the nod before heading down one of the tunnels. "We'll find Branka," she said, "and when we do, I'm putting a stop to this madness once and for all."


	36. The Madness of Branka

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party FINALLY gets out of the Deep Roads and settles Orzammar's problems once and for all.

**Chapter 36: The Madness of Branka**

_"No excellent soul is exempt from a mixture of madness." ~Aristotle_

 

Days later the group found themselves in the deepest part of the Deep Roads they had yet seen. Myranda's mood was foul and the others weren't in much better spirits, especially since they had been forced to butcher one of the brontos. When the chips in the tunnel became more numerous, the tension in the group mounted.

"If Branka is anywhere, _this_ has to be it," Oghren said. "She will _not_ be unprepared."

"Then let's not be unprepared, either," Myranda said. "I want to be ready for anything."

They moved out of the tunnel into a large cavern much like the other thaigs they had passed through. This time, however, the entire place made the Grey Warden woman's skin crawl. There was danger here—she could feel it. That feeling grew stronger at the sudden sound of a rockslide behind them.

"What was that?" Oghren asked.

The group turned to find the opening they had just walked through was completely blocked by debris.

"How could this happen?" Leliana asked.

"It will take days to dig back through," Alistair added.

"I've had enough of this!" Myranda drew her sword. "Where are you?" she called, her voice echoing through the vast space. "Show yourself!"

The knocking of a pebble tumbling down a rock face alerted her to the figure on a shelf above her. On it stood a dwarf woman: her dark hair was caked with dirt, dust, blood, and sweat, while her eyes gleamed slightly, even in the low light, to give her a malicious air. Her lips were pursed into a thin line of annoyance, as if she had been rudely called away from something. Her armor, small metal plates fixed to leather, was in tatters, but she was mindless of it.

"Let me be blunt with you," she said. "After all this time, my tolerance for social graces is fairly limited. That doesn't bother you, I hope." Though the words were on the edge of polite, her voice was anything but, the tone indicating that she didn't truly care if the blonde was offended or not.

It was at this point that Oghren laughed in seeming delight. "Shave my back and call me an elf! Branka?! By the _Stone_! I _barely_ recognized you!" He guffawed loudly a couple more times as he stepped toward the woman.

Branka sneered down at him. "Oghren. It figures you'd eventually find your way here. Hopefully you can find your way _back_ more easily."

Myranda glanced at Oghren, who stopped in apparent surprise before lifting her eyes back to Branka, facing off with her when the other woman looked down at her—figuratively as well as literally.

"And how shall I address _you_?" she asked snidely. "Hired sword of the latest lordling to come looking for me? Or just the only one who didn't mind Oghren's ale-breath?"

Myranda hadn't thought it possible for her to think _less_ of the Paragon, but she managed.

As with the last time another woman verbally attacked her, one of the men in her party came to her defense. This time, however, it was Oghren and not Alistair. "Be respectful, woman! You're talking to a Grey Warden."

One of Branka's eyebrows lifted in interest. "Ah, so an _important_ errand boy, then."

The blonde woman reached out and laid a hand on Baby's head as the mabari growled deeply and threateningly.

"I suppose something serious has happened," Branka continued, unaware or ignoring the hostility in the air. "Is Endrin dead? That seems most likely. He was on the old and wheezy side."

"He is dead, yes," Myranda said.

"And the Assembly is deadlocked," Alistair added.

"Then what is _your_ involvement in this? Why would a surfacer be interested in _dwarven_ politics?" The dwarven woman began to pace slowly in front of them, watching them like a stalking wildcat. "You must have a patron," she said as if coming to a revelation. "A _highly-placed_ patron. And they must want something in particular. Now, what might _that_ be?"

The blonde's brow lowered, gesturing with her hand as she sensed the aggression level behind her lifting at the almost tauntingly sarcastic tone adopted by the Paragon. "Easy," she murmured.

"I don't care if the Assembly puts a drunken monkey on the throne," Branka went on with a scoff. "Because our protector, our great invention, the thing that once made our armies the envy of the world, is _lost_ to the very darkspawn it should be fighting." Her eyes gleamed. "The Anvil of the Void! The means by which the ancients forged their army of golems and held off the first archdemon ever to rise. It's here! So close I can _taste_ it!"

"So why haven't you gone to _fetch_ it, since it's so close?" Myranda asked mockingly. "What's the catch?"

"The Anvil lies on the other side of a gauntlet of traps designed by Caridin himself. My people and I have given body and soul to unlocking its secrets." Her eyes gleamed again. " _This_ is what's important. _This_ has lasting meaning! If I succeed, the dwarven people benefit. Kings, politics... all that is transitory. I've given up _everything_ and would sacrifice _anything_ to get the Anvil of the Void."

"Does that include Hespith and the others of your house?" the blonde challenged. "Women you left to a fate worse than death?!"

Branka waved this away. "Enough questions! If you wish me to get involved with this imbecilic election, I must first have the Anvil."

"And now you expect _us_ to act as deliverers for that which you cannot retrieve yourself?" Morrigan asked incredulously.

"We don't need the Anvil," Myranda said. "I don't even need you alive. I could dump your corpse in the middle of the Assembly floor and that would solve my problem."

The dwarf woman frowned. "There is only one way out, Warden. Forward. Through Caridin's maze and out to where the Anvil waits."

"What has this place _done_ to you?!" Oghren asked. "I remember marrying a girl you could talk to for one minute and see her brilliance!"

Branka straightened her spine to stare down at them like a queen regarding lowly peasants. "I am your Paragon." Without another word, she turned and walked away.

"More crazy?" Myranda asked incredulously. "I thought we were all full up." She turned then to the dwarf at her side. "Well?"

Oghren chuckled a little, uncertainly. "Heh. Good ol' Branka. She's a bit, uh, abrasive, isn't she? Guess I forgot that part about her screeching in my ear every sodding day."

"You failed to mention you were married to the madwoman."

"Oh, that. Yeah... we were married. She really knew how to polish the old anvil, if you take my meaning!" The dwarf whistled and laughed lewdly. "Though I guess it would've been easier if I hadn't married her. Ah, well. We'll help her get the Anvil, and then she'll come home and everything will be better."

Myranda sighed. "If you say so," she said. She looked back toward the doorway that had been blocked. "Well, I guess Branka's right... the only way out is forward. Through another gauntlet. How I hate this." She muttered this last under her breath as she walked around toward another tunnel.

"So you and Branka were really married?" Alistair asked Oghren.

The dwarf grunted. "Tell you what, boy: you ever been married?"

"Of course not," he replied, glancing at Myranda's back. "I was raised in the Chantry."

"Thank the hardest stone you can find. Marriage is for suckers."

"So no pitter-patter of little Oghren feet running around the home cave, I take it?"

Oghren let out a short bark of a laugh. "All I ever got out of that moss-licker was a headache, a deaf ear, a scratched-up back and a rash it took three different ointments to get rid of."

"Wow, she gave up on you, did she?" the Grey Warden asked sarcastically. "And here you are, a keeper, too."

"No wonder she turned to her own sex for comfort," Morrigan muttered.

"Now that's just mean!" Oghren said.

"Could we?" Myranda interrupted. "This way."

They wandered through a large, open tunnel when Branka's voice suddenly came to them out of the gloom.

"I needed people to test Caridin's traps," she said. "There's no way to break _through_ except trial and error. I sent them in; they were all pledged to be my house, and they didn't want to help!" Her voice had become petulant, like a spoiled child that wasn't getting her way. "They tried to leave me, even my Hespith!" She seemed to regain herself then. "But even _she_ couldn't understand that when you reach for greatness, there are sacrifices... as many sacrifices as are needed!"

By this time they had reached a large room that was filled with dwarven and darkspawn dead. Disturbingly, many of the dwarves were decapitated and the hurlocks sliced cleanly in half. The reasons for these dismembered corpses were buried deeply in the rock walls: frighteningly long, star-shaped blades stained with red and black blood. A massive boulder in the room's center had crushed many more from the numbers of arms, legs, and bodies sticking out from under it.

"Traps indeed!" Zevran said.

Alistair whistled. "I think I preferred the Gauntlet in Haven."

Baby whined in agreement

"Andraste favored the clever," Myranda said, "but apparently Caridin only favored the quick."

"Speaking of quick," the other Warden said, drawing his sword, "darkspawn."

"As if our problems are not numerous enough!" Morrigan complained, gathering magic in her hands.

Despite the annoyance, the battle was over fairly quickly. They looted the bodies and edged around the giant boulder before wandering to the entrance into the next tunnel. It was then that Branka's voice came to them again.

"She shouldn't have gone." The petulant tone was back. "She was pledged to me! She swore she'd do whatever it took to find the Anvil. There was no other choice! Most of them were dying of the taint already." She sounded unconcerned about this. "But some," she went on, a slightly awed note entering her voice, "some of the women were... transforming. I _knew_ what they would become. There would be an _endless_ supply, fresh darkspawn to test the traps!" She was positively gleeful by this point. "They could still serve me, let me find the Anvil! It was the only way!"

"That's just cruel!" Leliana said. "Even if they are darkspawn!"

"Speaking of," Myranda said, drawing another arrow from her quiver, "here comes another wave."

Again, with the nine of them, disposing of the small group of darkspawn took next to no time. They continued down the tunnel, picking their way over and around the dwarven and darkspawn corpses as well as several fallen statues that littered the floor.

"You have no idea how they carried on," Branka's voice complained, "holding my hand and begging to die! They had pledged me their loyalty! They had no right to fight me!" There was a thoughtful pause. "They say your order is renowned for its wits, as well as its brawn. Perhaps you'll do better than my poor clansmen."

"Bitch," Myranda muttered.

"There's something about this place... it makes people despair."

"And it makes people crazy, too!" Myranda shouted back.

"Myranda," Alistair began.

" _No_! I'm _tired_ of it! I'm tired of being in the dark in this thrice Maker-damned place! I'm tried of being pushed around and told to go here and do this if you want us to help you... like I'm not in control of my own actions!" She drew her throwing knife and hurled it ahead of her into the tunnel and into the throat of an approaching hurlock. "And I'm _tired_ of being attacked by _darkspawn_!"

The third wave of darkspawn was cut down quickly, and viciously if they were unfortunate enough to get in Myranda's way. When the tunnel was again clear, they continued to a large metal door. Opening it allowed the escape of a yellow-green gas that caused Myranda to have a severe coughing fit before she got the door closed again. Alistair's arm around her was the only thing that kept her from collapsing to her knees.

Zevran sniffed the air gingerly. "Choking gas. Would you not agree, Leliana?"

"An acrid, pungent tang that burns the nose and stings the eyes? Indeed."

"So what do we do?" Alistair asked. "Do we just run through?"

Myranda shook her head. "If we have to fight..." she was cut off by another round of coughs, though these were not as violent as before. Still, Baby whined worriedly up at her.

"The choking gas will kill us if we spend any length of time in there," Leliana explained. "We'll have to find a way to circulate the gas out."

"Can't we just open the door and let the air circulate that way?" Wynne asked.

"Too slow," Myranda said, having regained her voice again. "And dangerous."

"So we are trapped?" Morrigan asked. " _Marvelous_."

"There must be a way through," Leliana said.

"Allow me," Zevran said. He took a deep breath and stepped through the door, pulling it closed behind him. One tense minute later, he returned, blinking tears from his eyes as he released the breath he had been holding. "There are four levers in the middle of the floor," he said, rubbing his burning eyes. "One assumes they control the room's ventilation system."

"All right," Myranda said, "so four of us go in and each pull a lever, allowing the fresh air to come in."

"No, no. There is no need," Zevran said. "Allow me." Before anyone could stop him, he had taken another deep breath and slipped back into the poison-filled room.

"Damn him," Myranda swore, pacing back and forth across the width of the tunnel. When the elf finally reappeared, he nearly fell through the door, coughing violently. He must have had some success, however, as the air looked only half as cloudy as it had before. "Go, Leliana," the Grey Warden ordered, pulling the assassin away from the doorway and propping him up against the wall. "One lever, then come back."

"Right away," the bard said, slipping by them into the room.

"Damn it, Zevran," Myranda muttered, holding his canteen to his lips to help him drink. "What did I tell you about trying to kill yourself?"

About a half-minute later the door opened again and, though Leliana's eyes were watering slightly, the air in the room was clear.

"The last two levers were right next to each other, so I pulled them both," she said.

"Fine." They made it through the room and down another short tunnel to the next room, which had eight niches carved out of its walls—four on each side—that each held a massive stone statue. Myranda halted the party in front of the first two statues, turning without a word and trotting back down the tunnel, warning the others not to continue forward. When she returned a few minutes later, she carried a darkspawn longbow in her hands.

"Do you really need two bows?" Alistair asked.

"Yes," she said. She held the bow by the very tip and reached forward with it, sticking her tongue out in concentration as she lowered it toward the floor. Suddenly, two large, star-shaped blades whirred out of an all but invisible slot on one wall, cleaving through the bow and embedding themselves in the opposite wall in a shower of rock and dust. She held up the broken bow for Alistair's inspection. "I didn't want this to happen to my bow... or to any of us."

"No... no I would say not."

A terrible groaning caught the group's attention then, and the second set of statues suddenly seemed to come to life, turning to attack the group. The party split, each half facing a golem, though Leliana and Myranda quickly discovered that their arrows were less than useless on the creatures. A heavy bolt of magic from Morrigan sent one of the statues careening backwards and apparently into a second blade trap, which ripped through it and sent it crumbling to the floor.

The sight startled a laugh out of Myranda. "Two birds, one stone!" This slight pun only made her laugh harder and slightly hysterically, drawing a concerned look from Alistair and Wynne. The laughter died instantly when the next two statues suddenly came to life seconds after they had defeated the last of the first pair. "Oh, Andraste's flaming sword!" she swore, launching toward one of the two new threats.

When this second pair of living statues—Oghren identified them as golems—lay in piles of rubble on the floor, the group still stood ready, waiting for any of the remaining four to come to life and attack. For a long time nothing moved until the party finally decided that the last set of golems was not going to come alive and continued through the next corridor.

Myranda approached the metal door at the far end of the tunnel with caution, opening it gingerly in case this room was also poisoned. It was not, however—and it soon became clear that poisoning the air in this room would have been an impossible feat. The room was large and open with an impossibly high ceiling. Dominating the room was a large dais with four anvils at the cardinal points around a large column onto which were carved four faces with gaping mouths.

"I thought the Anvil of the Void was one anvil," Alistair said.

"It _is_ one anvil," Oghren said.

"Then what are these four?" Leliana asked.

Myranda's emerald eyes narrowed as she approached the strange looking column, starting in shock and taking a quick step back as the eyes of the nearest face started to glow with a strange purple fire. "This isn't _the_ Anvil," she said as the column rotated. "It's another trap."

The battle was hard and grueling as the column's faces seemed to spit out various spirits to do battle with the party. A kind of strategy developed when one of the anvils became consumed with a sort of spiritual fire and Myranda lashed out at it with a vicious kick, only to be shocked when the fire coalesced into a large fireball that hurled itself back at the column. After that point, Myranda, Leliana, Wynne and Morrigan were all stationed by an anvil, touching them to send the mystic fire toward the column.

Fifteen arduous minutes later the column collapsed around them, Baby barely managing to run out from under a boulder that nearly crushed him. With the demolition of the massive column a door to the group's left suddenly opened with a bang. The group waited, expecting an attack, but none came, and so they cautiously made their way through the open doorway.

The room beyond was just as large as the one before, but had the look of a giant smithy. Lyrium gleamed from the walls and ceiling from massive veins and raw outcroppings that stuck up out of the ground. It was also filled with golems. Myranda watched them carefully out of the corners of her eyes as she led the way down the walkway. One started to approach them and the group readied their weapons, but the golem stopped and held up a hand.

"Hold," it said, the voice sounding like it came from the bottom of a well, reverberating as it would around an empty bucket. "I mean you no harm."

"Who are you?" Myranda asked.

"My name is Caridin," the golem said. "Once, longer ago than I care to think, I was a Paragon to the dwarves of Orzammar."

"Caridin?" Oghren repeated.

"As in _the_ Caridin?" Alistair asked.

"Of Caridin's Cross?" Myranda added. "Of Anvil of the Void fame?"

"If you seek the Anvil, then you must care about my story, or be doomed to relive it," Caridin said. "Though I made many things in my time, I rose to fame and earned my status based on a single item: the Anvil of the Void. It allowed me to forge a man of steel or stone, as flexible and clever as any soldier. As an army, they were invincible. But I told no one the cost."

Myranda lifted an eyebrow.

"No mere smith, however skilled, has the power to create life. To make my golems live, I had to take their lives from elsewhere."

"I'd call it blood magic if I didn't know dwarves could not perform magic," Wynne said.

"A dire shortcut," Myranda agreed. "Was it worth it?"

"So said my king," Caridin said with what sounded like a sigh. "The darkspawn were pressing in. I had only intended to use volunteers, the bravest of souls willing to trade their very lives for the chance to defend their homeland. But King Valtor became greedy. He began to force men... casteless and criminals... his political enemies... all of them were to be given to the Anvil. Soon a river of blood flowed out of this place."

"How terrible!" Leliana said.

"Finally, it was too much," the Paragon said. "I refused. And so Valtor had _me_ put on the Anvil next."

"So, what now?" Myranda asked, her heart starting to sink as her inner cynic told her what was about to happen. "Do you want revenge?"

"Not revenge," Caridin said, surprising the Grey Warden woman. "The blow of the hammer opened my eyes. My apprentices knew enough to make me as I am, but not enough to fashion a control rod. I retained my mind." He gestured to the golems around him. "We have remained entombed here ever since, and I have sought a way to destroy the Anvil. Alas, I cannot do it myself. No golem can touch it."

" _No_!"

The group turned to see Branka racing into the room.

"The Anvil is _mine_!" she shouted. " _No one_ will take it from me!"

" _You_!" Caridin shouted, pointing at the mad dwarf woman.

"By rights," Myranda said, " _We_ worked through the traps and therefore _we_ have claim to it, not you."

" _Please_..." Caridin said, "help me destroy the Anvil! Do not let it enslave more souls than it already has!"

Myranda looked at the golem. "You were... are... a Paragon. You could support a new king as well as anyone."

"Don't listen to him!" Branka raged. "He's been trapped here for a thousand years, stewing in his own madness."

"Of the two of you, I'd say _he_ sounds the more reasonable."

The dwarf woman seemed to have not heard her. "Help _me_ claim the Anvil, and _you_ will have an army like you've _never seen_!"

"Branka, you mad, bleeding nug-tail!" Oghren shouted. "Does this thing mean so much to you that you can't even see what you've lost to get it?!"

"'Twould be most useful to have something so powerful," Morrigan said.

Branka's eyes gleamed madly as an insane look crossed her features. "Look around," she said. "Is this what our empire should look like? A... crumbling tunnel filled with darkspawn spume? The Anvil will let us take back our glory!"

"But at what cost?" Myranda countered. "Then again, lives obviously mean _nothing_ to you."

"The Anvil enslaves living souls," Wynne said. "It must be destroyed."

Branka looked at her, stunned before a detectable rage passed over her face. " _No_! You will not take it! Not while I still live!"

"Branka!" Oghren said, stepping toward the madwoman to reason with her. "Don't throw your life away for this!"

"Get out of my way!" she replied, pulling out a large, wicked-looking hammer. "You're going to try to take the Anvil! Well I won't allow that!"

"We have to destroy the Anvil, Branka," Myranda said firmly.

Oghren turned to her. "Just give her the blasted thing!" he said. "She's confused... maybe once she calms down, we can talk to her!"

"That's not a risk I'm willing to take," the Grey Warden replied. "She's out of her mind, insane. She can't be reasoned with. Even if we give her what she wants, what's to stop her from putting _us_ to it?" She shook her head. "How many have to become slaves to it before she can be reasoned with? No. We destroy it now."

"Thank you, stranger," Caridin said. "Your compassion shames me."

Branka's face darkened. "Bah!" she spat. "You are not the only master smith here, Caridin!" She held up a stick that glowed with lyrium. "Golems, obey me! Attack!"

"A control rod!" Caridin sounded shocked. "But... how?"

"Does it matter?!" Myranda shouted as the golems around them began to come to life.

"My friend, you must help me! I cannot stop her alone!"

"Zevran!" Myranda called as she pulled her bow off her shoulder, pointing toward the mad dwarf woman before fishing an arrow from her quiver and placing it to her bowstring. She sent most of the party against Branka, while directing Sten, Oghren, and Morrigan to attack the golems. The difficulty with this last was that it was difficult to tell those golems fighting _for_ the mad dwarf apart from those fighting _against_ her.

The group finally managed to cut Branka down, and the golems fighting for her stopped suddenly when the control rod she had been using was stomped on by another golem, shattering it.

"Another life lost because of my invention," Caridin sighed. "I wish no mention of it had made it into history."

"Yeah," Oghren muttered, "you ain't kidding." He made a face and a disgruntled noise. "Stupid woman! Always knew the Anvil would kill her."

Myranda frowned as Baby whined softly. It was obvious that, though the dwarf recognized his wife's madness and the need for her death, he was still hurting.

"But at least it ends here," Caridin was saying. "I thank you for standing with me, stranger," he said to Myranda. "The Anvil waits there for you to shatter it." He pointed to the far end of a high bluff that, by the way it seemed to be lit from underneath, was high above a pool of lava.

"It was good to meet you, Paragon," Wynne said. "I intend to ensure that your warnings about the golems are heard by the Circle of Magi."

The golem Paragon bowed as best he could. "Is there any boon I can grant you for your aid?" he asked Myranda. "A final favor before I am freed from my burden?"

"I'll thank you for anything your skill can add to my cause," Myranda said.

Caridin sighed. "Do not thank me," he said. "All of this..." he gestured to the room around him, at the corpses that littered the floor "this is my doing, my legacy."

The blonde turned to the sullen dwarf next to her. "Oghren? You lost Branka to this. What do you want?"

Oghren looked up at her, looking surprised that she was asking him. "Huh." He looked up at Caridin. "Don't suppose you can bring Branka back? Maybe make her a golem, like you?"

"I would not do such a thing to her even if I could," the Paragon replied.

The dwarf sighed. "Somehow I didn't think so." He shook his head. "Then I don't want anything that would remind me of... _this_. Best it's just done."

Myranda nodded. "All right."

"There... _is_ still the matter of the election," Oghren added. "I mean, we still need a Paragon to get the Assembly's support, right?"

"For the aid you've given me," Caridin said, "I shall put hammer to steel one last time, and give you a crown for the king of your choice."

The blonde woman nodded. "I would be most grateful, ser. Thank you."

The hours it took the golem to forge the crown seemed to crawl by, the time spent in silence aside from the metallic ting of hammer molding steel. Myranda paced the floor until Alistair stepped in her way and folded her into his arms. Then she just leaned her head against his shoulder, breathing deeply as she tried to control her impatience to get out of the tunnels. Leliana tried to play her lute to calm everyone's shattered nerves, but seemed to grow bored with the endeavor after only a few minutes.

At last the incessant hammering stopped, drawing everyone's attention to the Paragon walking toward them. In his stony hands, he held a large crown that gleamed with the pale blue light of lyrium. "There," he said, handing the crown to Myranda, who took it gingerly, carefully avoiding the pale blue stone. "It is done. Give it to whom you will. I do not wish to hear their names, nor anything more of them. I have already lived far beyond my time. I have no place here."

Myranda handed the crown to Oghren, who handled it less tentatively than the human woman. "Thank you. I will destroy the Anvil, as agreed."

"That would please me, human," the golem said.

She followed him up to the rise where the anvil sat, looking it over. It was massive, infused with lyrium runes that, she assumed, made it stronger. "I don't imagine it will be as simple as hitting it with the sledgehammer there," she said, pointing to the nearby instrument.

"If it were that easy, I would have destroyed it long ago." Caridin shook his head. "It must be pushed off the cliff into the pool below."

"Of course it does." She kept her comment about the dwarves' inability to make anything simple to herself. She summoned the men of her party and told them of the mission, sending them up to push the anvil back into the void from whence it came. After an hour, however, the thing had only scraped six inches closer to the ledge that had been eighteen inches when they started. It finally flew over the ledge and fell into the fiery chasm below when it was blasted by a giant fireball from Wynne's hands. Myranda trotted to the ledge with a few of her companions and looked carefully over the side in time to see the black spot that had once been the great anvil melting away.

Caridin stood next to her and nodded slightly with approval. "You have my eternal thanks, stranger," he said. " _Atrast nal tunsha_... may you always find your way in the dark." With that, the mighty Paragon tilted forward, tumbling over the edge to follow his invention into the lava below.

The group on the ridge stared down after him for several long quiet moments before the silence was broken by Oghren.

"Well, that pretty much beat the sod out of how I imagined it." He looked up at Myranda. "You ready to head back and share the news?"

"To the Assembly. They need to know as soon as possible. And I need to get out of this place before it drives me insane."

 

 

Several days later they finally emerged out of the Deep Roads and into the mines of Orzammar. The Mines Commander looked shocked as they strode from the intense darkness and, though they were tired and dirty, led them immediately to the Assembly chamber.

"Lords of the Assembly," the Steward was calling as they entered, "I call for order! This argument gets us nowhere!"

"Then why these delaying tactics?" Bhelen's voice asked. "I call for a vote right now. My father has one living child to assume the Aeducan throne. Who would deny him that?"

Harrowmont spoke then, just as they were stepping onto the floor of the council chamber. "Your father made me swear on his deathbed you would not succeed him."

The Steward was the first to notice them. "What is this?"

"I apologize for the interruption, Lord Steward," the Mines Commander said with a bow, "but the Grey Warden has returned."

The room exploded with a roar of murmurs.

"We should let the Warden speak," Harrowmont said over the din. "What news do you bring?"

She opened one of the massive bags that had been strapped to their remaining bronto and pulled out Caridin's crown. "I bring a crown forged by Caridin on the Anvil of the Void," she called, causing the wave of murmurs to sweep through the chamber again. She was surprised when Czibor doddered over to her.

"Might I see the crown, Warden?" he asked politely.

"Certainly, Lord Shaper," she said, handing it over. She took it back again with a gentle smile as the Shaper attempted to hold the heavy thing and pull out his large spectacles.

It was Oghren that addressed the Assembly then. "Caridin was trapped in the body of a golem. This Warden granted him the mercy he sought, releasing him and destroying the Anvil of the Void. Before he died, Caridin forged a crown for Orzammar's next king, chosen by the ancestors themselves!"

Bhelen laughed outright. "And we are supposed to trust _this_ , the word of a drunken sot and a Grey Warden known to be in Harrowmont's pocket?"

Had Alistair not gently grabbed her elbow, Myranda, feeling tired, cranky, dirty, and insulted, would have sent her knife across the room to kill the insufferable prince.

"And if we were in _your_ pocket," Oghren challenged, "would you object, Oh, High and Mighty?"

"Silence!" the Steward ordered. "Lord Shaper, what is your word?"

The old man looked up. "This crown _is_ of Paragon make," he said, "and bears House Ortan's ancient seal." He turned his spectacled owl eyes to Myranda. "Tell us, Warden: whom did Caridin choose?"

"He wished me to give it to whomever I chose," she replied.

"The Grey Warden knows nothing about us!" Bhelen scoffed. "Why would a Paragon entrust someone like _this_ with such a weighty decision? This is ridiculous!"

Emerald green eyes narrowed slightly. "Ridicule is thrown only by those insecure in themselves and their methods, ser," she said evenly as the mabari next to her growled menacingly. "It is a sign of a weak mind."

"Do not forget the respect that has always been accorded the Grey Wardens' order, young Bhelen," one of the older deshyrs cautioned. "Such things should not be cast aside lightly."

"We've argued in these chambers for too long," the Assembly Steward said. "The will of the Paragon is that the Grey Warden decide."

Myranda looked around at the crowd of faces before drawing herself up to her full height and walking to the middle of the floor. "Lords of the Assembly," she began, "I beg you heed my words. A crown is merely a symbol; it takes a man with a true heart to lead a kingdom. The path of righteousness is narrow indeed; so easily do rulers and those wishing to rule misstep upon it. Those who reach for power too fervently often do not see the ledge on which they stand and fall into the darkness of corruption and despotism. Blackmail and trickery are the first signs of tyranny. Look to your history... remember your ancestors: King Valtor, who condemned a Paragon to an eternity of slavery as a golem for daring stand against him... for attempting to stem the slaughter of innocents just to satisfy the throne's thirst for more golems!" She looked around at the shocked faces of the lords around her. "A king—a truly noble king—would have no need or desire to resort to such methods to gain or keep his throne."

She looked at Alistair then and smiled a little. "It is the actions of a man in the face of adversity that truly measure his character," she continued. "You must look to see what is in a man's heart to know that he is truly worthy of a crown, and often he is one who does not truly wish it for himself. Those who do not want the power that is, at times, thrust upon them will use that power wisely and justly. _That_ is the true measure of a king." She looked around at the deshyrs again. "One of the men vying for your throne, desperate for the power he is convinced belongs solely to him, would lead this city down a path of destruction. I have witnessed the strength of his ambition and the lengths to which he will go to make sure that he gains power. This would lead you into that abyss of autocratic oppression, a fate to which I would not condemn you. As such, I would grant the crown of the Paragon Caridin to Lord Harrowmont."

Alistair lowered his eyes to the floor as she finished this speech, unable to shake the feeling that he had just heard part of his own coronation speech.

"I appreciate your forthrightness, Warden," Harrowmont said as he strode toward the middle of the floor. "You have acted with grace through this entire torturous process."

Bhelen, by this time, had recovered from Myranda's speech—and the veiled insults within—and the shock of this apparently unexpected turn of events. "I will not abide by this!" he yelled, shaking with rage.

"The ancestors have spoken!" the older deshyr who had spoken out before said. "Stand down, Bhelen."

"Would you let a _surfacer_ decide the fate of the dwarves?" the would-be prince asked.

Myranda felt the shift in the air and subtly gestured to her party, seeing Zevran sneaking through the shadows toward the enraged dwarf a few minutes later. She herself stepped fractionally closer to the new king.

"I will not stand by while my father's throne— _my_ throne—is granted to a usurper by a supposed _Grey Warden_ who has been bought out! I do not believe that they found Caridin... we all know Caridin has been dead for Ages!" Wild eyes looked around at Czibor, the Assembly Steward, and the deshyrs around him. "You have _all_ been bought! I demand those of you loyal to the rightful king of Orzammar stand against this pretender!"

"Watch out!" One of the deshyrs called, pointing toward the door where Vartag Gavorn and several dozen others stood with drawn swords and readied crossbows. "They brought weapons!"

"Guards!" Harrowmont shouted before he was tackled to the ground by the Grey Warden woman, who took the bolt meant for him in her thigh just below her hip. The next three bolts bounced harmlessly off of Alistair's shield. Sten and Oghren rushed to take on this group while Leliana stood by her fallen friend, daggers drawn, with Alistair and Baby to keep her from being attacked.

"Where's Zevran?" Myranda asked.

"Close," Leliana said, knowing not to point out the assassin who was closing in on Bhelen, who was striding toward them with an obvious intent to murder the Grey Warden woman and the king she had named. She had just sheathed her blades and pulled her bow to take down the crazed prince when he was grabbed from behind and one of Zevran's wicked blades was pulled across his throat from ear to ear, splashing blood across the floor before he was pushed down in front of the assassin.

On the death of the would-be king, his supporters quickly surrendered and were taken into custody. After assuring the attempted coup was under control, Dulin Forender jogged over to the middle of the room. "My king," he said. "Are you all right?"

"A question better asked of the Grey Warden," Harrowmont said as he got to his feet.

"I'm all right," Myranda said as Alistair threaded her arm around his shoulders and helped her to her feet, snapping off the bolt below the fletching. "It will take more than a crossbow bolt in the leg to take me down. The hard part will be..." her voice was cut off in a hissing gasp as the bolt was suddenly driven the rest of the way through her leg.

"Sorry," Leliana said, pulling the arrow out of her thigh and moving as Wynne knelt to heal the wound.

Myranda took a few deep breaths, wiping the sweat from her brow. "Just... warn me next time." She looked back at Harrowmont, gracing him with a strained smile. "I beg your pardon," she said.

"Quite all right, Warden. I would offer the royal physician, but I don't believe you need it." He shook his head with a sigh. "I admit, I did not think even _Bhelen_ would defy the word of a Paragon. Nor that so many would follow him. But most of Orzammar has seen him for what he really is, and I trust we will bring this insurgency under control."

Wynne, by this time, had finished healing Myranda's leg, and the blonde gingerly put her weight on it before standing on her own. "Show them you are a strong king and they will follow you," she said.

"I prefer to be known as a just and compassionate king," Harrowmont replied. "'Strong' too often comes to mean 'tyrannical,' and we will all remember that speech you made," he added with a smile. "But I will not leave this uprising unpunished."

"Be sure you are thorough. That is my only advice."

"Of course. As to _my_ side of our bargain, those loyal to the throne will begin preparations for a surface mission immediately. Orzammar will fulfill its treaties."

"Thank you, King Harrowmont," Alistair said. "Perhaps _your_ rule will mark a new era for Orzammar."

Myranda looked at him and smiled. He had made the comment like a visiting dignitary, and it pleased her to hear it. She threaded her hand into his elbow as she turned back to the new king. "We appreciate your cooperation, your Highness."

Harrowmont nodded to them. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I must get to the palace and set our plans in motion."

"And we must return to our duties on the surface." She lifted a hand to her hair, pulling her hand away and shaking it when she came across a cobweb that was lodged there.

The new king chuckled softly at this. "Could I offer you and your party a bath, at least? The hospitality of the palace is yours, of course."

"Your Majesty, I will gladly accept your offer," Myranda said with a smile. "But if you'll excuse me, I have some sales to make first."

Myranda allowed the party to disperse, and while most headed toward the palace, she, Alistair, Leliana and Zevran went to sell the armor, shields, weapons and other trinkets she had picked up in the Deep Roads, Baby trotting along behind them. Myranda left Alistair with the armor and shields, taking the weapons while sending the gems and other trinkets with Zevran and Leliana, deciding that the best strategy was to divide and conquer. Myranda herself barged in on a startled Janar, her arms loaded with swords, daggers, bows and crossbows. She haggled as high as she dared, keeping a running tally in her head. When Zevran walked in a few minutes later, Myranda had successfully negotiated for one hundred and forty gold, a number short of her goal. When she told him, the elf smiled and handed her the fifteen gold he had gained from the sale of the precious gems. Realizing she now had enough for her purchase, she hugged the elf tightly with giddy delight before taking her heavy purse and running from the shop.

Leliana quickly stepped out of the way of the blonde woman, watching her for a moment before turning to Zevran, who was walking out of the shop grinning like a smug cat who had just eaten the canary. The look made her smile herself. "She's going to buy the dagger, yes?"

"Yes," Zevran answered, unable to wipe the smile from his lips or forget that he could still feel her hugging him. And while it confused him, he didn't much care.

Myranda rushed by Alistair into Garin's shop. She didn't see the dagger, but that didn't mean he hadn't moved it somewhere else in the shop. "Garin!"

The dwarven merchant started as the Grey Warden woman burst into the shop. "Oh! H-H-Hello, Warden. How can I h-help you?"

"Do you still have that dagger? The Rose's Thorn?"

"N-no. I just sold it, actually. My apologies." His voice trailed upward slightly before he managed to regain control. "C-can I interest you in something else?"

Myranda heaved a dejected sigh, her heart sinking toward her boots. "No... no, I don't think so. Thank you." She walked glumly from the shop, over to where Alistair was loitering nearby. Baby was sitting next to him, tongue lolling and smiling his doggie grin.

"There you are, love," the other Grey Warden said. He tilted his head a little when she didn't lift her eyes from the floor. "What's the matter?" he asked.

"Oh, I didn't get that pretty dagger... it was gone." She sighed in disappointment. "I really wanted it, too."

Alistair couldn't contain his smile any longer. "I think I have something that might cheer you up."

"What's that?"

He pulled the object he had been hiding from behind his back. "Look at this," he said. "Do you know what this is?"

Myranda looked at what he held and her face lit up: it was the beautiful dagger from Garin's shop. "My new weapon of choice?" she asked hopefully, looking up at him.

He nodded.

She couldn't contain her squeal of delight, throwing her arms around his neck and hugging him tightly. "Oh, thank you, _thank you_!"

He laughed as he hugged her. "You know, I think most women prefer getting flowers or jewelry."

"You've already given me both."

"When was that?" he asked, pulling away just enough to look at her.

"There's the rose you gave me and this," she said, touching the small red pendant that rode in the hollow of her throat.

He laughed a little. "I'll have to remember that: the way to a woman's heart is through flowers, jewelry, and deadly weapons."

"That's the way into _my_ heart." She smiled. "And besides, every good rose should have her thorn."

"As long as I don't have to worry about being stabbed with it."

"Oh _never_ , my darling," she said before rubbing her nose playfully against his. She stepped away from him and practically ripped the other dagger off her belt before tying on the Rose's Thorn. Then she held out her arms, turning her hip slightly as if to model the blade.

Alistair nodded in approval. "Perfect."

Myranda smiled and hugged him again. "You're so wonderful," she said. "I love you. Thank you."

He chuckled softly. "You're welcome, my love."

A grin crossed her lips and she lowered her voice to murmur softly in his ear. "I'll show you how much I appreciate it later." She pulled away to look at him and watched his interest and desire losing the battle with his shock and slight embarrassment at her making the suggestion while they were in public, wrinkling her nose in a silent giggle as a blush crept into his cheeks.

A throat cleared itself nearby and the couple turned to see the commander they had met in the Dead Trenches standing nearby.

"Commander Kardol," Myranda said, stepping over to him with a smile. "Good to see you."

"Not as good as it is to see you, Warden," the Legion of the Dead commander told her. "The throne restored and legends put to rest. Incredible. If I'd heard it second hand I'd have called it a sodding lie." A slight smile crossed this lips. "Warden, we've got a king because of you."

The blonde woman smiled a little, reaching behind her for Alistair's hand and squeezing it gently.

"The rest," the Legion commander continued, waving a dismissive hand, "impressive, but the Legion is grateful most for restored leadership. It frees us to fight the darkspawn properly."

"Can I count on you to fight the Blight at my side?" Myranda asked.

Kardol chuckled a little. "Nay, our place is down here. When you break the Blight—and you've got the skill—we'll make sure they have nowhere to retreat. You'll have us," he said, "indirectly. That's more than any surfacer can say."

"We need you topside," the blonde woman urged. "Show the world your skill."

The dwarf considered her words for a few minutes. "You alone have the skill to back up your words," he said finally. "Each of the Legion owes our homeland a death, but if our lives are better shed on the surface, so be it!"

"Thank you, Kardol."

"Back to Orzammar when we win, though," he said with a smile. "I'll not stay topside to lose my stone sense."

 

 

After two baths—with a third poured so she could scrub her hair—and a deep and restful sleep in the palace, Myranda felt more like herself again. Though invited to attend the coronation by the king-apparent, the Wardens begged off, restating their duties on the surface. Nodding, Harrowmont reached for a long steel staff.

"This is the staff I carried as King Endrin's second," he said. "It has been in Clan Harrowmont for a long time, inherited from a noble-hunter who had been given the staff by a grateful human mage for services unknown. Take it as a reminder of your place in Orzammar."

"Thank you, your Majesty," Myranda said, taking the gift. Perhaps Morrigan needed a new staff.

Harrowmont bowed his head. "I wish you luck against the Blight, Wardens. May we foster another four centuries of peace."


	37. Another Start

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party travels back to Redcliffe, making stops at some familiar locales.
> 
> Some nudity and sexual themes in this chapter.

**Chapter 37: Another Start**

 

The next day as the party prepared to leave Orzammar for good, both Leliana and Zevran noticed immediately that Myranda sported the beautiful Rose's Thorn dagger on her hip. The Grey Warden woman smiled and patted the hilt, looking at Alistair when she said it had been a gift. Her smile widened when she added that she had made sure to express her considerable appreciation for it, seeing the vivid blush color his cheeks.

They made their way out of the city, Oghren accompanying them almost as a matter of course, which Myranda did not question. She fastened her heavy cloak around her, pulling up the hood as they reached the outer door. The weather, however, surprised her; while it was cold, it was not bitterly so. The group looked around at each other; though they were once again set in the path of the sun—it was mid-morning—they suddenly had no idea about what month it was.

Oghren himself paused in the doorway, staring up at the blue sky. "Give me a moment," he said.

"Sure," Myranda said, "take your time. I think we all need a moment."

The dwarf took a deep, steadying breath. "By the Stone, I feel like I'm about to fall off the world with all that sky up there."

"Take your time," the Grey Warden woman repeated kindly. "I need you ready to fight."

Oghren let out a short laugh. "If I could fight Randar Vollney's second after downing fifteen lichen-ales in half an hour, I'm not going to be put off by a high sodding ceiling."

She smiled. "No worries then, hm?"

The dwarf took another deep breath, glancing nervously back up at the sky. "Well... let's get moving. We're losing... whatchacallit? Daylight."

"Right. Let's get started. And first things first." She led the way down through the impromptu trading town and over to the scavenger Faryn. He looked up and smiled in what he must have considered a friendly way until he recognized Myranda and then his eyes widened in fear.

"I already told you!" he said, backing away and holding up his hands in surrender. "I don't have the sword!"

"Yes, yes," Myranda interrupted. "It's in Redcliffe. But what _day_ is it?"

The scavenger looked at her suspiciously. "It's... twenty-three Drakonis."

Green eyes blinked in shock before she turned to the rest of the party. "We were down there nearly two months!"

"We should get back to Redcliffe quickly, then," Alistair said. "Arl Eamon's probably wondering what happened to us."

"Let's go then."

Despite the chill in the air, most of the party couldn't convince themselves to pitch their tents that night, unrolling their bedrolls near the fire so they could stare into the sky and still keep some semblance of warmth. Only Oghren pitched a tent.

Myranda and Alistair lay awake long after the others had fallen asleep, staring up at the sliver of moon.

"It's strange," he said quietly after a long time. "We spent all that time in the dark in the Deep Roads... I thought I'd dread nighttime when we came back to the surface."

Myranda smiled a little. "I'm just glad to be out from underground... where I can see the sky and the sun and the moon." She looked up at the thin silver crescent hanging in the sky. "I hadn't realized how much I'd missed it." Her smile faded then. "I don't think... I don't know that I'll want to spend my last days in that horrible place, unable to see the sky." She paused for a moment. "I may feel differently when my time comes, but I don't know."

"Let's not talk about that," Alistair whispered, holding her close.

She looked at him and smiled again. "No. Let's don't." She snuggled against his chest. "I love you," she whispered.

"I love you, too." He kissed her forehead gently before sliding his hand from her shoulder down to her hip. He stopped at the sudden touch of a pommel. "Are you wearing your dagger?" he asked, looking down at her face. Her eyes were closed, but a smile crossed her lips at the question.

"Of course I am," she said. "I'll never be without it. It was a gift from my lover, so it's very special to me." Her heart fluttered as his soft chuckle resonated warmly in his chest.

"I think you can take it off to sleep," he said.

"Not with darkspawn about. We were attacked in camp before, remember."

The smile left his face then. The worrisome line of thought led to another, equally worrying one. He turned it over in his mind, replaying her words again and again, letting it slip away as she shifted to nuzzle her nose against his neck.

"What's the matter?" she whispered, the breathy words teasing and caressing the sensitive skin of his throat.

"Nothing."

"Alistair," she cooed. "You know I can tell when something's bothering you. No secrets."

"It's nothing. I was just... thinking."

"About?"

"The future. And what might happen."

"You're worrying about becoming king." She smiled at the heavy sigh that escaped him.

"Did you mean what you said back there?" he asked after a few moments. "About those not wanting power are the best rulers?"

"I have found that to be true. As I understand, Maric didn't want the crown himself, but he did well ruling Ferelden. Reluctant leaders are not as apt to abuse the power they have; those that crave it generally do so for the wrong reasons and then use it for evil."

"Like Loghain."

"And Howe." She sighed a little. "But it's why I'm not too worried about you becoming king, if you're forced into it. You won't abuse the power because you don't truly want it." She smiled. "Not that I think you're capable of abusing the power. And I would be there to help you... if you wanted."

"You know I would. I couldn't do it alone."

She kissed his neck softly. "Stop worrying, Ali-bear," she teased. "Everything will be all right."

He sighed softly. "I hope so," he murmured.

 

 

_[26 Drakonis]_

"So, is it very strange for you, my friend, living in the world of the tall?" Zevran asked their dwarven traveling companion.

"Here I thought I was living in the world of the nosy and the stupid," Oghren grumbled.

"It just occurred to me: chairs are too high, tables are out of reach... using the toilet facilities alone must be a lesson in humility."

"I'm not bloody two feet tall, you swishy nug-licker!"

Myranda couldn't help but snicker at the protest. Traveling companions offered untold amusement, despite the occasional headaches.

Zevran heard the Grey Warden woman's soft giggle and grinned to himself. "And then the light!" he went on, deciding to play out this game as long as he could. "After all that gloom of Orzammar and the Deep Roads, it's a wonder you don't wander about squinting in pain."

"It is bright, I'll give you that," the dwarf said.

"And, _oh_! Not to have a roof over your head!" he went on dramatically, seeing out of the corner of his eye how the blonde woman's shoulders shook with suppressed mirth. "You must constantly fear that you'll fall up into that vast, _endlessly_ open sky."

Oghren looked upward warily. "Uhh..."

Myranda covered her mouth to keep her giggles from carrying back to the group.

"One day you live within the surety of a mountain," Zevran said, pouncing on the show of unease from the dwarf, "and then gone! Nothing but vacuum, nothing to stop you from being sucked up into the void, nothing to..."

" _Stop_!!!" Oghren shouted. "One more word," he said, sounding decidedly ill, "and I chop you down where you stand!"

Zevran shook his head slowly. "You are a brave, brave little soldier, my friend."

"Zevran!" Myranda called, trying not to laugh out loud. "May I have a word, please?"

"I am, as always, at your service, my dear."

She looked over at him as he drew even with her, still trying to control herself. "You said all of those things on purpose, didn't you?"

"I suppose I am, in some ways, transparent." He looked at her and smirked. "But I did hear you laughing, did I not?"

Myranda did laugh then, despite herself. "Just try not to antagonize him too much, please."

"I am forced to wonder why you decided to let him join us."

"For the same reason I let you come with us: he's useful."

"I thought you kept me around because I was pretty," he teased, his heart warming at the soft giggle this comment provoked.

"You have your uses."

"True, though I am still waiting for you to ask me to warm your bed," he said with a grin. "I am told it is a specialty of mine."

"I have Alistair to do that for me, thank you," she replied primly.

Zevran sighed dramatically. "Rejected again! The fates are so cruel to the elves."

"Don't even _think_ about asking if you can cry on my bosom."

"Ah, so you heard that, did you?"

"Why she lets you get to her I cannot imagine."

 

 

_[Cloudreach 2]_

After settling most of the party in at The Spoiled Princess Inn near the dock, Myranda, Alistair, Baby, and Wynne made the short trip across Lake Calenhad to the Circle tower. Greagoir was a little surprised to see them, but granted the three access inside. When they passed through a library where a few young mages were having lessons, a knot of children rushed toward them, the little girl Myranda remembered as Arais at their head. She knelt down and scooped up the little girl, returning her tight hug as the other children swarmed around them. They visited with the children until Irving entered the library, having apparently been sent for.

Wynne and Myranda excused themselves from the children's company to talk to Irving about Dagna, convincing him of the teenage dwarf's eagerness to learn not spellcasting, but the technical aspects of magic. The First Enchanter considered this for a few moments before agreeing that the exchange Dagna had proposed would be mutually beneficial and that he would send a mage to escort the new student to the tower as soon as one could be spared.

As she and Wynne were then telling Irving about Caridin and his warnings about the golems, Myranda glanced back over at the knot of children. A few were playing with Baby, scratching him and petting him and running along after him as he bounded around the room. The others—about six—were sitting with Alistair, who was sitting on the floor talking to all of them. Arais had taken up a privileged position in his lap and was hanging on his every word. The sight made her smile, especially when he apparently felt her eyes and glanced up at her before grinning himself. He acted so naturally around them it wasn't difficult for her to imagine him in another group of children, all of which would have varying shades of blonde hair and eyes from hazel to bright, vivid green. After losing the last one, she hadn't really wanted to try again—a decision that Alistair had accepted understandingly—but now... perhaps now.... Then Wynne said her name and she blinked, the image shattering as she was pulled back to the present.

They spent another half hour with the mages before taking their reluctant leave, shaking hands with the young apprentices and mages, including the blonde mage Caeda, who also healed what small wounds they still suffered. Arais asked for a hug and got one from both Grey Wardens before promising to practice hard so she could be a Grey Warden too. Myranda told her she would hold her to that promise, promising in return to visit when the danger was over.

On the boat trip back, Myranda said nothing, staring at the sunset. She pulled her eyes away from the western horizon only briefly when Alistair took her hand, a soft smile crossing her lips as she leaned her head on his shoulder. She continued her contemplative but not unhappy silence through the meal of lamb stew served by the proprietor of The Spoiled Princess.

Alistair said nothing about it until they lay in bed that night, as Myranda lay curled against his side tracing odd patterns across his chest with her fingertips. "You've been very quiet since we left the tower," he said.

"Hmm? Oh. Yes."

"Is something wrong?"

"No," she murmured. "No, my darling. Nothing's wrong."

"Are you sure?"

"Mm hmm." She looked up at him dreamily. "I've just been thinking."

A slow smile crossed his lips at the wistful look on her face. "Should I ask about what?"

"Oh... nothing." She rolled on top of him and sat up in his lap, looking down at him with a small smile on her lips. "I was just thinking how natural you looked among the children."

He smiled up at her, admiring how the moonlight streaming in through the window seemed to make her skin glow softly. "I would have been a terrible templar," he said, sliding his hands slowly over her thighs and hips. "They look at those children and they only see the abominations they could become. But they're _children_. That little girl—what's her name? With the silver eyes?"

"Arais."

"Yes. They'll never see her as anything more than a potential threat. But she's so cute and sweet. And _smart_. I couldn't believe some of the things she knew." His hands continued to move slowly up her body, into the dip of her waist and over her stomach. "In some ways she reminds me of that pretty little girl in the pink dress that I saw in Redcliffe," he added with a teasing grin.

"Does she?" Myranda's grin took on a more mysterious quality, innocently seductive. "But that girl in the pink dress is a woman now."

"Yes... yes she is." He sat up as his hands cupped her breasts, kissing her neck. "Very much a woman."

Myranda tilted her head back with a sigh, sliding her hands over his shoulders. She looked down at him as his hands slipped around her, his mouth lowering to suckle and tease her breasts. She shifted slightly, grinding her hips against his and gasping as his loud moan sank into her chest. "Oh, my prince," she breathed, taking another ragged breath when he gripped her hips and pulled her against him, moaning as she felt the heat and strength of his desire.

Her next, louder moan was muffled by his lips on hers and she placed her hands between them before gently pushing him away until he lay back on the bed, grinning wickedly at him. "Lesson twelve," she whispered before crawling backwards off of him, letting her lips and tongue follow the path of her hands down his body.

A twisted smile crept up his lips. "I like lesson twelve."

"I remember." Her soft, throaty laugh was soon drowned out by his loud moan of pleasure.

 

 

_[Cloudreach 3 – Evening]_

Myranda disappeared right after dinner.

Alistair wasn't too worried except when, after an hour, she hadn't come back. He followed after where he'd last seen her, only to find she had leaned her shoulder against a tree and was staring out at the water of the lake, though whether she was actually seeing any of it he didn't know. The strangest feeling of familiarity suddenly washed over him. It seemed he had found her like this before. When? She looked at him over her shoulder as he approached, a smile crossing her lips, and the feeling ceased to matter.

"Here you are," he said. "Are you all right?"

"Oh, yes. I'm fine... much better now." She turned more fully toward him. "I was thinking of taking a short walk... will you join me?"

He smiled at her. "You have to ask?"

They walked together slowly along the shore, listening to the water as it lapped gently at the small pebbly beach. The large full moon floated over the water in the deep velvet sky, its light sparkling on the waves and giving the lake a bright vein of silver luminescence. A slight breeze blew up, sighing softly in the treetops. The suddenly familiar setting suddenly struck Myranda and she grinned.

Alistair caught the grin and smiled at her. "What's on your mind, my love?"

"I was just thinking about how it's a nice night for an evening." She giggled at the wince that crossed his features.

"Maker! Just when I'd nearly forgotten about that..." his voice trailed off and he shook his head. "I'm amazed you didn't write me off as a complete idiot."

"I thought it was slightly strange, but I was so nervous it didn't much matter." She took his hand, interlacing their fingers. "Besides, you're cute when you're awkward."

They walked blissfully along, playfully gossiping about their companions while Alistair pretended to plot a mutiny against her. He laughed when she pointed out that his mutiny would be counter-intuitive at that point as he was sleeping with the leader.

"Which reminds me," he said, "have you changed your mind about her?"

"Who?"

"Our fearless leader. I remember you didn't have much good to say about her."

She smiled. "I have changed my mind," she said. "I never would have believed she could be so happy. She's so..."

"Vibrant?" Alistair offered when she paused. "Joyful? Fun? Divinely beautiful?"

Myranda laughed. "You _are_ an idle flatterer!"

"Not at all, my dear," he said, lifting her hand to kiss her fingers.

"But yes, I have changed my mind. She's warm and gentle and loving and has a... light about her. Leliana called it a 'glow'," she said with a giggle. "But she's changed so much from when we were last here... mostly because she allowed herself to fall desperately in love with you." She glanced at him. "I don't suppose you've changed your mind about her, as you had nothing but good things to say about her."

"Actually, I have."

Myranda stopped and looked at him.

"I said before that I thought she was the most beautiful woman in Ferelden, right? Well, we've been to a lot of places in Ferelden and now I can say that I _know_ she is. In fact, I think she's the most beautiful woman in Thedas."

She smiled, stepping into his arms when he pulled her toward him, releasing his hand to wrap her arms around his shoulders as his went around her waist. "Be careful what you say," she murmured. "She might fall more deeply in love with you."

"Would that be so terrible?" he asked softly, leaning toward her.

Their lips met then in a soft kiss, a kiss that curled Myranda's toes and caused both their hearts to pound.

"I wish I had done that when we were here six months ago," Alistair whispered when they finally broke apart again several minutes later.

Myranda smiled dreamily at him. "I think it was worth waiting on."

They stood together, letting the romance of the scene sweep them away into another soft, deep kiss... and then another and another.

"I love you, Myranda," Alistair whispered after several long moments. "I'll always love you."

"I love you, too." She leaned her head on his shoulder, looking out over the lake. "It's so nice here," she murmured. "I think I'd like to have a house here... or maybe on the east shore. A little place for just the two of us."

"A little love nest?" Alistair murmured, nuzzling her.

"A holiday house," she said. "And, yes, love nest."

"Why here?"

"It's romantic." She looked at him and smiled. "And there's no one around... all the better to not be overheard," she added with a wink.

He grinned and kissed her lips briefly. "You are a bad girl, Myranda Cousland."

"And you," she said, tapping him on the nose, "like me that way." She let her smile soften. "I've... been thinking."

"So you said last night. Are you all right?"

She nodded. "I want to try for another baby," she murmured.

His eyes lit up with excitement. "You do?"

"Yes... I want to try again. And again and again, if we must." She smiled, laughing when he suddenly scooped her up in his arms and twirled her around. "Oh, I love you," she said when he stopped. "I love you, I _love_ you." The only thing that silenced her was his lips pressing against hers. Their kiss did not end, in fact, until he started to take her back to camp a few long minutes later, carrying her all the way into their tent.

 

 

_[Cloudreach 6]_

Myranda was headed back into camp when she heard Oghren hailing her. "Oghren?"

"There you are," he said, trotting over to her. "Wanted to talk to you."

"Sure," she said. "Go ahead."

"Aye," he said. "Here we go." He took a deep breath. "You and I, we've..." his voice trailed off for a moment, then he tried again. "You know how sometimes you spend time with... people, and things..." his voice trailed off again when Myranda lifted an eyebrow at him, a general look of consternation crossed his face. "Hm."

"Take your time," she said. "What is it?"

Oghren took another deep breath. "I was thinking," he said, "I know some people out here on the surface. _A_ person, actually. Girl I knew in Orzammar. Before I left, obviously."

A slow smile pulled up the corners of the Warden's mouth. "A girl you knew," she asked, "or a girl you _knew_?"

Oghren blinked. "What? You mean were we rutting?" Then a knowing smile crossed his lips and he chuckled lewdly. "Oh, aye. After Branka left for the Deep Roads. Name's Felsi. She was a _fiery_ one." He was silent a few moments as he relived a pleasant memory before he seemed to physically shake it away. "I'm sure she's forgiven me by now. Thought maybe I'd track her down. See how she's been living."

"Do you know how to find her?" Myranda asked.

The dwarf shrugged a little. "I tried to look her up the last time we were at Lake Calenhad. She wasn't at work at the inn. At home with her sick mother, they said." He sighed again. "I figured it was just the ancestors telling me something, but..." he shrugged again, "I keep thinking about her."

"We can go back," she said. "There should be time."

Oghren grinned at her then. "Well and a good friend you are, Warden. I'll think about you if we ever..." his voice trailed off as she raised an eyebrow and gave him an uncertain look. "No, actually that would be gross."

"Thank you," Myranda said with an slight laugh, patting the dwarf on the shoulder as she continued into the camp. Her steps slowed as she noticed Zevran was sitting staring contemplatively into the fire. There was an air about him that worried her, more so when he started as she put her hand on his shoulder.

"Ah, Myranda," he said with a gentle smile, a strange light in his eyes. "What say you, my friend?"

"Come now, Zevran," she teased, sliding her hand across his shoulders before sitting next to him. "I shouldn't have been able to sneak up on you that easily."

It was all Zevran could do to control himself. His skin tingled as if she had trailed her fingertips across his bare flesh. A niggling doubt flitted through his mind that the reaction should worry him.

"A distracted assassin is a dead assassin... did you not tell me that?"

He chuckled softly. "A policy you yourself do not follow, as you become quite distracted by your fellow Warden."

She smiled and laughed softly. "Fair enough," she said. Her smile faded a little. "Is there something on your mind you want to talk about?"

"Compassionate as well as beautiful. What more could a man want?" He grinned at her before reaching over to pat her hand. "You are truly too good to me, Myranda, but do not worry. I assure you I am quite content."

"All right. If you're sure."

"Quite."

She smiled a little at him. "So tell me more about your adventures."

"Again?" Zevran asked before looking at the fire contemplatively. "Well, now... what might interest you, I wonder?" He looked back at her with a teasing grin on his lips. "Shall I describe the stages involved with lanthrax poisoning? I watched a man go through all seven, once."

Myranda shrugged. "If you like, certainly."

Zevran laughed at this, a sound Myranda found quite pleasant to listen to. "No, I'll not inflict that upon you just yet," he said, waving it away. "Let's see." He tapped his chin thoughtfully "How about the largest battle I ever took part in? That would have been the slaughter of Prince Azrin." He looked at her. "Did you hear of that down in these parts?"

She shook her head. "I didn't... not that I recall."

"You may have been too young for it to matter to you." He waved it away.

"So you killed a prince?" Myranda asked.

"Me? Not personally, but I did take part in the attack." Zevran settled in for the story. "Prince Azrin was fourth in line to the throne, you see. He started off as eleventh, but worked his way up the old-fashioned method, by inheriting control of an entire Crow cell from his grandfather."

"You can _inherit_ groups of assassins?"

He looked at her. "It is not so different from inheriting a sword," he said reasonably.

"I see."

"Anyway, after assassinating his way through the royal family, the king hired three other cells to take down Prince Azrin once and for all. I was in one of those cells." He paused here at the puzzled look that passed the blonde woman's face, trying not to think about how he wanted to trail soft kisses along her furrowed brow or to nibble at her pouting lower lip.

"Is that sort of thing common in Antiva?" she asked.

"Antivan royalty is very much bound up in the Crows," Zevran explained. "You wouldn't want it run by a bunch of commoners, after all, would you?"

"Certainly not."

He made a small acknowledging gesture. "This means they get involved in politics quite often. This particular fight nearly bankrupted the nation, I understand. It almost ended up putting a Crow on the throne, a commoner... but that's a whole different story," he said, verbally waving it away before she could ask about this tangent. "I played a very small part," he said, with a humility that surprised Myranda.

"What did you do?"

"My part in the entire battle was taken up trying to reach Princess Ferenna, who had thrown in with her brother. I killed about eleven of her guards personally before I got knocked out of a window."

The blonde's hand went immediately and involuntarily to her mouth in shock.

"I landed in the river and nearly drowned. I was fished out by some urchins who robbed me blind." He made a face. "Made off with my boots, too."

Myranda couldn't help but laugh at this. "You have bad luck with boots, don't you?"

Zevran blinked at this before laughing himself. "It's true! But at least the urchins didn't cut my throat." He shrugged then, modestly. "And that was my part in history."

"You're very lucky, indeed."

"It's true," he agreed. "I live a charmed life." He winked at her and reveled in the soft laugh it provoked. "One of the prostitutes that raised me was a fortune teller. Said I wouldn't die young. She was rather startled by that," he added, making a great show of looking confused by this last.

The blonde woman giggled softly. "How long ago was the assassination of Azrin? You said I would have been too young for it to matter to me."

Zevran sighed a little, tilting his head back to look up at the dark sky. "Let me see... ten years ago?"

"Ten years!" Myranda was startled. "It couldn't have been ten years ago."

He blinked at her. "And why not?"

"You're not old enough."

"Is that so?" he asked with a chuckle.

"Then... how old _are_ you?"

The elf smiled secretively at her. "How old do you think I am?"

She placed a finger to her lips, looking at him as if she was studying him. "Let's see. I'm twenty-three and you can't be _that_ much older than me." She considered him for another few moments. "Twenty-eight?" She watched him shake his head. "Twenty-nine?" Green eyes blinked in surprise when he continued to shake his head. "No! You can't be thirty!"

"A few years older than that," he said before laughing softly. "Ah, my dear Myranda, it warms my heart to think that you consider me so young."

"Well, you... I mean, you always _seem_ so young. Not to say that older men can't be attractive, but you have this..." her voice trailed off as she looked for the word "this _something_ that makes you seem so young."

"'Something'?" he teased.

"A sexuality, if you will."

All the humor left his face and an intriguing spark danced in the depths of his eyes then as he lifted an eyebrow at her. "You think so, do you?" he asked softly in that dark, secretive tone.

"As you have said, you have a reputation with women... one that wouldn't come if you _didn't_ have that sexuality. And any woman with two eyes, a pulse and a working sex drive can see that you are incredibly attractive."

Zevran stared at her for a few silent moments before a soft, warm smile crossed his lips. "And you accused _me_ of flattering _you_ ," he murmured.

She shrugged. "I say you are attractive because it is true," she said, grinning at him. "Should I not?"

"Surely you _must_ be joking. Would I pass up the opportunity to have a divine beauty... a _goddess_ such as yourself... tell me that she finds me attractive?" He smiled as she laughed softly... that deep, throaty laugh that he found _very_ sexy. "But there you go. Tale told. Now let's be off before I tell more embarrassing stories, hm?"

Myranda took a breath to say something when she saw Alistair walk by behind Zevran. He gave her a look, she lifted a questioning eyebrow, and he grinned before ducking into their tent. An almost predatory smile curled the blonde woman's lips. "Get some sleep, Zev," she said absently as she stood.

Zevran had caught the look that had been directed over his left shoulder and had recognized it instantly for what it was and who it was for. "At least one of us should... and I do not think you will be sleeping tonight."

"No," she said as she started toward her tent. "No, I certainly will _not_ be sleeping tonight."

 

 

_[Cloudreach 11]_

The group was greeted with open arms in Redcliffe, offering various goods and services for free or a greatly discounted price in continued gratitude for the party's help in liberating the village and saving the arl. After posing a few questions to Murdock, who welcomed them warmly, Myranda sent Alistair and most of the party ahead to the castle, having Sten accompany her and Baby to the home of the dwarf Dwyn.

She knocked on the door three times with increasing levels of force. She was about to kick the door in—or have Sten do it—when the door opened slightly.

"What is it?" a rough, gravelly voice asked. The dark eyes lifted to Myranda's face and the deeply shadowed face sneered slightly. "You. What do _you_ want?"

"I'm looking for the qunari sword you bought," she said.

The dark eyes narrowed. "Now why would you be interested in that?"

"It's _mine_ ," Sten growled.

The door opened a little more as Dwyn looked for the owner of the new voice. His eyebrows lifted—a spark of fear was there and quickly hidden in his eyes before he sighed heavily with annoyance. "You know, Faryn didn't mention the giant he took it from was _alive_ ," he muttered.

"Then why don't you give up the sword and we'll go?" Myranda said with saccharine sweetness as Baby growled softly next to her.

"Excellent idea," Dwyn said. "It's in my strongbox. Come in," he said, moving out of the doorway.

Myranda waved for Sten to stay outside as she and Baby ducked into the house, her brow dropping as she came face-to-face with two burly men that she could only describe as thugs. She nearly rolled her eyes, especially when one cracked his knuckles stereotypically.

"Say hello to the _great_ Grey Warden, boys," Dwyn said. "She's come for the qunari sword we bought."

"Well," Thug One said. "We ain't gonna give it to her, are we?"

"Yeah," Thug Two added. "She's gotta learn she can't just come in and take our property."

"I say we teach her a lesson."

"Yeah." Thug Two chuckled lewdly. "She's pretty too... that could be fun."

Myranda narrowed her eyes as Baby growled menacingly next to her.

"We're not gonna do anything to her," Dwyn said, coming back into the room carrying a large, curved scabbard. "Here," he said, thrusting it into Myranda's arms, "Here's your sword. Now why don't you leave me alone?"

 

Sten stood stoically in front of the house, turning when the blonde human woman and the dog that followed her everywhere reappeared outside. His attention, however, was locked on the sword in her arms. The large scabbard was long and flat, a tooled black leather piece that had intricately-worked silver details on the tip and where it tied onto a belt, and the handle of the sword was gloriously polished black wood inlaid with ivory and bearing silver accents. He stared at it for a moment when Myranda held it out to him, taking it carefully before drawing the sword, gazing at the inscribed blade. "Strange," he said at last, softly, almost to himself. "I had almost forgotten her. Completion." He examined the sword, everything from the way his hand curled around the familiar grip to the long, smooth curve that ended in a devastatingly sharp point. "I call her Asala—the soul, _my_ soul," he went on. "She is forged from rare blue steel, and has served me faithfully for many years."

The blonde woman admired the beautiful sword, looking up into Sten's face to find the most astonishing look there: a smile.

"Are you _sure_ you are a Grey Warden?" he asked. "I think you must be an _ashkaari_ to find a single lost blade in a country at war."

Myranda couldn't help the smile that crossed her own lips. If she didn't know better, she would have sworn he had been teasing her a little. "You're welcome, Sten."

He looked back at the sword. "I would thank you for this, if I knew how," he murmured. He gazed at the blade—Asala—for a few more moments before returning her to her sheath, looking back at Myranda with another smile on his lips. "And I could deliver a much more satisfying answer to the Arishok's question if the Blight were ended, don't you agree?"

One blonde eyebrow lifted. "So you're staying then?"

"I am one of the Beresaad," the qunari told her. "I have never abandoned the field with a battle unmet."

She smiled. "I'm glad to have you, Sten."

Baby barked in agreement.

"Yes," Sten said, "it isn't every Grey Warden who has her own beresaad." He nodded once. "I will see you reach the archdemon. Lead the way, kadan."

Myranda blinked at this new name. "Kadan?"

"It is a word for a person one cares about. You might call them 'friend' or 'brother.'"

She couldn't help the startled laugh that escaped her throat. "This after you attacked me three months ago!"

He stared at her. "You have retrieved my sword and helped me regain my honor. If this does not make you kadan to me then my honor is truly forfeit."

"I..." she honestly didn't know how to respond to this. "Thank you." Slightly embarrassed, she started back through the village to head to the castle. They walked in silence until finally, the qunari spoke again.

"I have been mistaken."

Myranda looked at him over her shoulder, not pausing. "What do you mean?"

"You are a soldier worthy to stand among the Beresaad. I did not think so when we first met."

"Because I'm a woman," she said flatly.

"And other reasons."

"So what changed your mind?"

Sten looked at her curiously. " _You_ did, of course."

Emerald green eyes blinked in slight surprise.

"The day will come," he went on, "when the Arishok sends us here. On that day, I will not look to find you on the battlefield."

That he said it with such certainty was worrisome. "You think the qunari will invade Ferelden?" she asked.

"In time."

She frowned. "Well, then, I won't look for you, either," she said.

A look of consternation crossed the qunari's face then. "There is no point in dwelling on it," he said, "we should move on."

"Let's go, then."

"As you wish, kadan."

Myranda smiled. She could get used to the new nickname.


	38. Sisters of Fate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ding-Dong! The witch is dead! Which old witch? The wicked witch! Ding-Dong! The Wicked Witch is dead!!!

**Chapter 38: Sisters of Fate**

 

Two days after the party arrived in Redcliffe, they set off again, this time for Denerim and the Landsmeet with Arl Eamon and Bann Teagan and an entire retinue of soldiers to act as escort for the two nobles. As the knowledge of what would happen in that city slowly settled over the two Grey Wardens, the tension and sullenness around them intensified. Myranda continuously tried to assure Alistair that there was nothing to worry about, no matter what the outcome of the Landsmeet, but she was becoming less and less convinced of it herself.

The worry affected not only the pair's morale, but also their confidence and appetite, including their sexual appetite, which had been almost insatiable since Myranda had announced her desire to try for another baby, especially the two nights they had spent in an actual bed in Redcliffe castle. The fourth night on the road, they lay together in their tent, foreheads together, trying to simply take comfort in each other's presence.

"It will be all right," Myranda said, repeating the sentiment she had stated at least three dozen times since they had left Redcliffe.

Alistair sighed heavily—as had been his response every time. But this time he spoke: "How can you be so sure? What if they force me to be king? What if I don't have a choice?"

She found his hand and interlaced her fingers with his. "Then I will stand beside you, as you have done for me."

He looked at her and she saw then the true depths of his worry. "What if they make me marry Anora?"

Myranda's face hardened. "They can't do that," she said. "If they make you king, you are the king." She emphasized each of the last four words. "They cannot tell you what to do. They may advise you one way or another, but the decision is _yours_. If you want to spend your evenings in the taverns in the Market District among the commoners, then you can do that. Likewise, they cannot force you to marry Anora if you do not wish it. You needn't marry at all, if you don't wish to," she added, though the thought made her sad. "The point is, you would retain a degree of freedom as king, and remember, I am no commoner. My claim to the throne of queen is actually stronger and more valid than Anora's. The only reason she is queen and I am not is because _I_ refused the crown."

He sighed heavily again. "I know," he said. "I know you're from nobility, I just... I keep thinking they're going to make me marry Anora." He lifted his hand to cup her face. "I don't want that to happen, Myranda," he whispered.

"It won't... and you're just going to have to trust me when I say that." She hugged him tightly. "I love you," she murmured into his ear.

Alistair returned her embrace, holding her tightly as if to never let go. The thought that she could be taken from him... refused to him... was too much to bear. He didn't want anyone if he couldn't have her in his life. He needed her laughter and her smiles—they were his life's blood.

"No matter what happens, I will stand beside you," she murmured to him. "King or commoner, whatever your status after the Landsmeet, I will still love you and be here for you."

He pulled away a little to look into her eyes. "You deserve a king, Myranda," he murmured.

"And yet I want only what you are willing to give. All the gold and power in Thedas is worthless to me, the greatest kings of this world beneath me." She reached up and trailed her fingertips along his jaw. "I deserve nothing more than what you are, Alistair, and what you give to me." She smiled at him. "I would be as happy in a one-room cabin on the shore of Lake Calenhad as in the palace in Denerim, as long as you were there."

He allowed himself to smile at her before catching her lips in a soft kiss. If he had to be king, what a queen she would make! "You realize I wouldn't look like a very good king next to you," he murmured when he pulled away.

One corner of her mouth lifted in a smirk. "If you want my opinion, I think you'd be a fine king."

"You think so?"

She nodded. "You heard what I said in Orzammar. For those reasons you would be a good king, if you have to be." She leaned her forehead against his again. "But it isn't worth talking and worrying about right now. If I have learned anything from politics, it's that nothing is certain. I'm as worried about this as you are—"

"I know. I just..." he was cut off when she placed a finger to his lips.

"I'm as worried as you are," she repeated softly, "but there's nothing we can do at this point." She smiled and tapped him on the nose. "Except, of course, enjoy this time that we have together. Everything is so uncertain, especially with the Blight. We're here, and we should make the most of that."

"And we don't have to keep watch so often," he added with a grin, "so we have more time to ourselves."

"Though I told Teagan I'd help him with the watch tomorrow night."

Alistair blinked. "Why?" He paused then remembered: "Bann Teagan's not standing watch tomorrow." He gave her a look as she laughed softly under her breath.

"You're so jealous," she teased.

"I'm not jealous," he said, pouting.

"You _are_. You're a jealous lover. You don't like it when I even _talk_ to good-looking men."

"That's... that's not true."

"Oh no? And what if I asked Teagan to take a walk with me tomorrow night?" She giggled at the annoyed look that crossed his face. "You see?" She tickled him until he broke down and laughed, laughing herself as he caught her wrists and pinned her down onto her back. "Jealous," she teased in a singsong voice.

"All right," he said, the smile returning to his lips. "But you get jealous, too."

"I do not. I'm just possessive. I don't mind if you talk to other women. I _do_ mind if you start flirting... not that I think you would."

He nuzzled her. "Why would I do that when I have the most beautiful woman in Ferelden?"

"And I'm not going to share you, my handsome prince, with anyone else." She leaned up and kissed him, wrapping her legs around his waist. "You are _my_ lover, after all."

"And you," he teased, "are a bad girl, Myranda Cousland."

She rubbed her nose against his playfully. "And you love it," she murmured before kissing him deeply.

 

 

A few days later, Myranda took Eamon aside to tell him of her party's detour, though she didn't tell him its purpose. She was given instructions to the arl's Denerim estate and was offered some of the Redcliffe soldiers to aid her in her mysterious mission, help that she appreciated but declined. She doubted very much that any of them would agree to help her.

She was on her way back into camp she paused to talk to Teagan briefly before continuing through the camp, exchanging at least a few words with each of her party members, sharing a laugh with Zevran and giving encouragement to Leliana, who, like the two Wardens, grew more anxious with each step the group took toward Denerim. She strode past Alistair heading in the opposite direction, glancing at him with a smirk on her lips before catching his hand. They stood at arm's length away from each other, their fingers intertwined before they pulled away and continued in their respective directions.

"Good evening, Morrigan," she said when she reached the outskirts of the witch's separated camp.

Morrigan looked up at the Grey Warden and stood. The look on her face was cold and determined and Myranda knew this conversation would not end well.

"So you _finally_ decided to face my mother?" she asked acidly.

"Now that we don't have to backtrack and now that I think we won't be killed, yes." She lifted her chin. "You're welcome, by the way."

"I refuse to be thankful that you have been so loath to help me."

"Your mother, may I remind you, is the Witch of the Wilds, and perhaps too much for us _mere mortals_ to defeat." She lifted one eyebrow. "This isn't what's bothering you," she said. "Rather, this isn't _all_. What is it?"

"It is unfathomable," the witch said, "that you have remained with Alistair for so long."

"We've had this discussion before."

"He is an imbecile! For such a brilliant woman to remain with a weakling...!" her voice trailed off and her fingers contorted to look like claws, which she was probably imagining digging into Alistair's neck, before shaking her head and looking back at the female Warden, her hands dropping to her sides in frustration. "'Tis intolerable!"

"He is _not_ weak," the blonde said, her jaw tightening as her temper frayed at this attack. "And I stay with him because I love him."

"Let me tell you one thing," Morrigan said, "and then let us speak of it no more. Love is a weakness. Love is a cancer that grows inside and makes one do foolish things. Love is death. The love you dream of is something that would be more important to one than anything, even life."

Myranda was angry and hurt by this callous dismissal. "Love is no weakness," she snarled. "My love is what keeps me alive and sane. It may be foolish, but it makes me happy. The love I have is not more important than my life, it _is_ my life; without it I would cease to live and would merely exist... as _you_ apparently do." A sneer crossed her face as the other woman's brows dropped slightly. "Perhaps the 'love' you speak of is merely lust, the difference between which any _civilized_ person would know." With that parting shot, she turned on her heel and stormed away, brushing into her tent.

She sat glaring on her bedroll when the flaps parted and a furry face peeked inside, whining softly. "Hey, Baby," she said, a small smile lifting the corners of her lips. "How's my Baby?" She reached over to scratch the dog behind the ears as he woofed and trotted over to her. "You're a good boy, aren't you? Who's my good boy?"

Baby barked and licked her right cheek.

"Sweet boy," she cooed, rubbing his ears as she kissed his muzzle. She looked up as the tent flaps opened again and smiled at the face that looked in. "Hey, baby."

Alistair smiled at her. "I saw you storm in here and volunteered Baby to check on you first. I didn't think you'd snap at him like you might do to me."

"I wouldn't snap at you."

"Not on purpose, anyway," he teased. "Are you all right, my love?"

"Oh... yes. Yes, I'm fine." She smiled wanly as he came in and knelt next to her as Baby moved to curl up at the foot of their bedroll. She put a finger to his lips as he leaned forward to kiss her cheek and turned her head slightly. "This one," she said, tapping her left cheek.

He stared at her. "Does it matter which cheek I kiss?"

"Well if you don't mind kissing the same cheek slobbered on by my dog..."

Baby lifted his head and growled softly.

"I'm sorry," Myranda said, petting the hound. "It's not slobber. It's just a wet kiss, isn't it?" She smiled when she was answered by a happy bark. She looked back up at Alistair, who smiled at her and leaned forward to kiss her on the cheek—notably the left one. "Will you come to bed soon?" she asked.

"Soon. I have to take care of a couple things first."

When he did come back, Myranda was undressed and was laying on her right side in their bedroll, her eyes closed, though she obviously wasn't asleep given the furrow in her brow that revealed she was deep in thought about something. He smiled, stripping mostly off and climbing in behind her before kissing her bare shoulder, feeling her start in surprise. "What's on your mind, my love?" he murmured, leaning forward to kiss her cheek as he wrapped his arm around her. "What happened to upset you?"

She sighed deeply. "Oh... nothing. Morrigan's nervous about us facing Flemeth."

"She's being a bitch as usual, I take it."

"She was being a bit bitchy, yes."

"Does that mean we don't have to help her?"

"No, we're still going to go find Flemeth."

"Why?"

Myranda looked at him over her shoulder. "Because I can be a bitch when I'm nervous, too. And I told her I would, and I will not go back on my word. But I won't ask you to follow me if you don't want to."

Alistair sighed, resting his forehead against her. "I don't understand why you want to help her," he admitted. "She's a complete bitch and has never done anything for _us_."

"She didn't abandon us."

"My point exactly," he said acidly. He sighed again. "But I'm not going to let you face the Witch of the Wilds alone."

The blonde smiled a little, laying back down and closing her eyes again. "Thank you, Alistair."

"I'm going to protect you," he said. "Not to help _her_."

"I know." She took his hand and brought it to her lips, kissing his fingers before interlacing them with hers. "Still, thank you."

 

They parted company from Eamon and Teagan the next day, heading south toward the Wilds. Myranda warned the party about the increased darkspawn numbers and, true to her dire warning, the group saw scores of darkspawn. Their presence didn't concern Myranda overmuch; it was when they started to disappear that she grew worried. Lack of darkspawn meant they were approaching Flemeth's hut.

When she estimated they were two days away from Flemeth's, she told the party to leave everything that could be spared at camp. That was also when she told them the purpose of their impromptu turn to the south. Not surprisingly, Leliana, Wynne, and Zevran stared at her as if she had lost her mind.

"Flemeth?" Wynne repeated. "The infamous Witch of the Wilds?"

"Surely there are less violent ways of committing suicide, my dear Myranda," Zevran added.

"Is it even possible?" Leliana asked.

"I won't ask anyone to come who doesn't want to," Myranda said. "But I'm going." She gave Morrigan an icy glare. "Stay here," she ordered before turning and continuing toward the south, Alistair and Baby right behind her. Sten fell into step almost as a matter of course, with Oghren trudging quickly to keep up. When the other three decided to follow she didn't know or care.

It was another day and a half on a quick march before they reached the swamp on which sat Flemeth's hut. The air still tingled with power as it had six months before, but this time the power seemed more malevolent, more dangerous than it had previously. A tremor of fear shot down Myranda's spine, but she pushed it aside, refusing to feel like she was walking into a dragon's lair. They spied the hut in its clearing and rounded the corner, and Myranda's called challenge died in her throat.

Flemeth stood waiting for them, looking somehow younger than she had when Myranda had last seen her. Her hair was whiter and longer than it had been last time they had seen her, part of it fashioned behind her in such a way that it resembled horns, the ends wrapped in dark red leather. Her golden eyes gleamed brightly with intent beneath her helmet, which sat on her head like a crown. She wore a toughened leather armor that was in the same burgundy red as the strips that were wrapped around her hair, cut low in the front, though it had a tall collar to protect her neck and was accented with black feathered pauldrons. Her arms and legs were encased in metal plate armor, while a train of fabric, attached at her waist, billowed out around her in the breeze.

"And so you return," she said, a knowing smile twisting her lips.

"Good evening, Flemeth," Myranda said with false sincerity.

"Lovely Morrigan has at last found someone willing to dance to her tune. Such enchanting music she plays, wouldn't you say?" the witch goaded.

"Not nearly as complex as yours, but more honest, certainly." The blonde lifted her chin. "We know your little secret."

The older woman laughed. "Which one, I wonder?" she asked, her smile turning secretive. "What has Morrigan told you, hmm? What little plan has she hatched this time?"

"She knows how you extend your unnatural lifespan."

Flemeth didn't look surprised. "That she does. The question is, do _you_?"

Myranda narrowed her eyes.

"Ahhh, but it is an old, old story," the witch said, pacing slowly back and forth in front of the group. "One that Flemeth has heard before... and even told." She stopped and faced them, still looking halfway amused. "Let us skip right to the ending, shall we? Do you slay the old wretch as Morrigan bids? Or does the tale take a different turn?"

"You deserve to die, whatever the reason."

The older woman sighed in mocking despair as she lowered her head. "It is a dance poor Flemeth knows well. Let us see if she remembers the steps." Her head snapped up then, her eyes shining with what Myranda could only call excitement. "Come. She will earn what she takes. I'd have it no other way."

Before their eyes, the old witch transformed, growing larger and larger and longer and longer, glowing white as the air crackled with powerful magic. When the light faded, before them stood a massive high dragon, its hide the same crimson color as Flemeth's armor had been, eyes glittering and teeth ready, dripping with acidic poison.

"That would explain the dragon feeling..." Myranda muttered. She didn't have time for further thought about it as the dragon lunged at her, mouth open and fangs bared.

The battle was long and difficult, as she had known it would be. Had she time, she could have noticed that Flemeth never seemed to attack Alistair directly, contenting herself to merely bat him out of the way. She even would have wondered about the strange behavior, why she seemed to want to keep him alive. But she couldn't, and she didn't.

Myranda's only moment of panic was when Flemeth snatched her up in her mouth. Her breath was foul and her acidic saliva ate into her leather armor, but she swore if the old hag tried to swallow her, she'd cut her entire throat open. But she wasn't going to be swallowed. She saw the jaws starting to close and she plunged her sword upward into the roof of the dragon's mouth, closing her eyes at the loud roar of pain that followed. They remained locked there for a few moments until Myranda felt heat building. A glance down the dark throat revealed the blast of fire that was rising to incinerate her and she closed her eyes again, burying her head into her elbow. That her life would end this way....

But suddenly the heat died. The dragon seemed to stiffen and she felt herself falling, the impact of the dragon's head against the ground jostling her and sending her sword through the upper jaw with a jolt that would have snapped the blades of lesser swords. She blinked, looking around as the jaws slowly opened to see Sten prying them apart. Bracing her feet on the roof of Flemeth's mouth, she pulled her sword free and quickly rolled out, looking around and noticing that the qunari's sword was embedded deeply in the dragon's skull.

"Myranda!" Alistair said as he rushed toward the other Warden. This was the second time he had nearly lost her in this place; he would never come back as long as they lived. "Are you all right?" He was halfway to her when he was stopped by Zevran suddenly grabbing his arm.

"Do not approach," the elf warned. "She has not heard you."

"What are you talking about? She's right there!"

But Zevran only shook his head. "Does it not strike you as strange that you have called to her and she has not answered? I assure you, she cannot hear. Sneaking up on an assassin—certainly one with her skill—takes a delicate touch. As such, allow me to be the first to approach her." He smiled a little. "Besides, she will not feel as terrible about wounding me as she would about you, my friend."

Alistair hesitated, then relented. He did have a point... Myranda hadn't answered his question, and she would never have ignored him so completely.

Zevran stepped toward her, his eyes narrowed in calculation. Myranda had skill enough on her own to kill him; on edge and unable to hear his approach, she would be twice as deadly. It would take quick reflexes, something Alistair, burdened by his heavy armor, would not have. It would be nothing to die at the hands of the beautiful Grey Warden woman... it would almost be a privilege. She lashed out predictably when he touched her shoulder, and he only just dodged the vicious swipe of her dagger, catching the counter swing of her sword with his own dagger. He smirked at her when she looked at him in shock, then embarrassment.

"Sorry," she said, louder than necessary.

"Myranda?" Alistair said as he approached. "Myranda? Are you all right?"

She narrowed her eyes at him then shook her head as if trying to dismiss a troublesome insect. "What?" she yelled.

"Deafness," Sten said.

"It would stand to reason," Zevran added, "considering she was in the dragon's mouth when it roared in its death throes."

"Will she be all right?" Alistair asked.

"Most likely."

"Will all of you _speak up_?" Myranda yelled in exasperation.

Alistair knelt beside her and wrapped his arms around her. "Oh, Myranda," he murmured.

Myranda tensed in confusion before returning his embrace. She looked up at him and was about to ask when he put a finger to her lips. Then he pointed to his ear and shook his head. "You..." she started to ask when he cut her off by pointed at her. She blinked at him before recognizing that there was a definite ringing in her ears. Then it occurred to her: she hadn't been able to hear anything her companions had been saying. They appeared to be talking, but she had thought they were whispering. But they hadn't been. They had been speaking normally; she was deaf.

She looked over at Baby, who looked like he was whining before opening his mouth and made that motion he always made when he was barking at her. And she heard nothing. She looked back at Alistair, horrified. Was this deafness permanent? Would she never again be able to hear him whisper to her, to hear how he said her name with such love and affection?

Alistair held up a hand, indicating that she shouldn't panic. "How's Wynne?" he asked, looking around for the mage, knowing she had been knocked back by a violent sweep of the dragon's tail.

"She's all right," Leliana said, walking over. "She's starting to come around."

Myranda watched as the bard turned to her and said something, smiling. She gestured to her ear and shrugged helplessly, trying to indicate that she couldn't hear her words. Bright blue eyes widened in shock and she mouthed something that looked like "nothing," though Myranda couldn't be sure, so she answered with another helpless shrug.

Leliana looked at Alistair. "What do we do?"

"I'm not sure there's anything we can do," he said. He looked down when he felt Myranda tug gently on his sleeve, his brow furrowing as she started to mime something. She lifted her hand, her thumb against the side of her index finger, before twisting her wrist. It took him a minute, but he finally understood what she was asking about. "We need to find a key," he told the others. "Apparently whatever we came here for is locked up."

The group scattered to look for the key, Oghren cutting up the dragon when Myranda indicated it might be in the beast itself. Wynne made her way slowly to the Grey Wardens, healing most of the group's injuries, including Myranda's, though she could do nothing about the blonde's deafness.

Myranda sat on a nearby stump, sullenly watching the flurry of activity as her party searched for the key, Baby sitting on one side of her, Alistair standing steadfastly on the other. Of all the things to happen to her... deafness. What a horrible fate. Wynne had indicated that it may not be permanent, but there was no way to know for certain. She lowered her eyes and leaned her head against Alistair's hip, sensing him shift before feeling the touch of his hand on her shoulder. Interesting.

The slight tremor below her feet alerted her to the approach of someone, and looking up revealed it to be Leliana, who brandished a key triumphantly above her head. Myranda stood and smiled her thanks as she took the key, waving for her and Alistair and the others to wait before climbing the three steps up to the hut and stepping inside.

Nothing had changed since she had seen it after waking that fateful evening last August. There was a pungent smell of herbs that she hadn't noticed the last time she was here, but she had been so woozy, she may not have noticed it then. The bed she had laid on had not been moved, and she sat upon it with the feeling of someone who had just stepped into a dream. A wave of remembered emotions crashed over her: the horror and sadness at what had happened at Ostagar, followed by the relief that she had not been left completely alone by the tragedy. She looked around again, and her eyes suddenly alighted on a small chest, nearly hidden in the shadows of a dark corner. Remembering then the key in her hand, she went over to the box and set to opening the old lock.

She felt it snap open after a long time and nearly tore the lock off the box before opening the lid. Underneath a set of robes lay an old but lovingly cared for book, bound in leather of questionable origins. Intricate stitching on the cover marked out a leafless tree, which seemed strangely ominous in its stark appearance. She flipped through pages that smelled of herbs and wood smoke before determining that this must have been the grimoire that Morrigan wanted. She closed the book again and tucked it under her arm, leaving the robes before standing, looking around the hut's interior one last time before stepping back through the door.

Standing on the platform that held the small hut, she looked down at Alistair, who was standing on the bank of the marsh looking out over the water. Whether he was alerted to her presence or simply felt her eyes she didn't know, but he turned after a moment to look back at her, smiling gently. She again felt a rush of memory and smiled back at him, descending the stairs slowly before slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow as they looked around at the place where their journey had begun. It seemed like yesterday... and yet a lifetime ago. After several long moments, Alistair looked at Myranda, waiting until she returned his gaze before gesturing for them to leave. She smiled slightly at him before allowing him to lead her from the marsh.

They were barely on their way before they stopped to make camp. Wynne checked Myranda's hearing again, but said that it would simply take time... another day or so. She gestured the same to the Grey Warden woman, whose shoulders dropped with disappointment when she realized what the healer was saying. She had stayed by the fire since then, staring into the flames after waving Alistair to bed, motioning that she would follow later.

Zevran watched her. He had watched her a great deal of late. He had been clutched by an unmistakable terror when the dragon had snatched her up in its mouth and he had been seconds away from rushing the beast and slitting its throat open from jaw to stomach. He had been halfway to the beast when it had fallen from the blade in its brain, and he had only just danced out of the way of being crushed. Now that he had had time to ponder the reaction, the more curious it made him. What had the tightness in his chest and the stillness of his heart when she had been snapped up in the dragon's jaws meant? Why had he been so relieved to see her climbing out of the monster's mouth? It couldn't be... no. No, it was not that. He had not felt that emotion in a year—he had killed it within himself, never to feel its sting again. And yet... and yet.

Sighing, he stood up and walked over to her. She looked up at the touch on her shoulder, a wan smile crossing her lips when she saw him. He motioned to his ear and she shook her head. "Soon," he said, though he knew she couldn't hear. He answered her questioning look with a reassuring wave. He sat with her at her offering gesture, sitting quietly with her before speaking.

"It is perhaps better that you cannot hear me," he said, "so you cannot laugh at my misery. Oh, dearest Myranda, do you know how beautiful you are? Or how much I desire you? You cannot possibly know. How you torment me in your ignorance! The little things you do... your laugh when you are immensely pleased with yourself... the fire in your eyes when you are teasing one of the others—or even myself. You have no idea how wild you drive me.

"Yet it would be worse were you to know. It would be difficult for you—you would be concerned about me. About me! It has been so long since someone cared about me. Since..." his voice trailed off, unable to speak the name. He sighed. "Ah, what a treasure Alistair has in you."

Myranda watched him during this speech. He knew she couldn't hear a word... what was he saying to her that he didn't actually want her to know? Whatever it was, it obviously troubled him, she could tell that by the look of misery and exhaustion on his face. She reached over and put a hand on his wrist, smiling a little when he looked over at her. She pointed at him and placed her hands next to her cheek in a gesture of sleep, trying to ask if he'd been sleeping, but rolling her eyes when he smirked suggestively at her. She smiled and shook her head at him; he was impossible as always, but she wouldn't change him for anything. She watched him chuckle to himself—though she couldn't hear the rich, warm sound—before he waved her to her tent. She gave him a last concerned look and wasn't reassured by the smile he graced her with: there was a sadness in it that worried her. She tilted her head, but again he waved her off to her tent, and this time she went.

She wiggled her fingertips at Alistair when he rolled over to look at her as she entered, returning his smile. She reached down and petted Baby, who licked her arm in appreciation, before stripping off most of her clothes and going into Alistair's outstretched arms, laying down beside him. She pressed her ear against his chest, straining to hear the gentle beat of his heart. It was useless and she knew it, but she tried. But she could feel his soft breathing, the barest brushing of his fingertips against her skin as he lifted his hand to massage the back of her neck. She closed her eyes as she smoothed her hands over his back, _feeling_ his gasp and the tickling of his breath as he sighed into her ear rather than hearing it. She opened her eyes as she looked up at him, smiling gently before accepting his soft kiss, feeling him murmur "I love you" against her lips before he pulled away. She smiled and mouthed the words before he leaned his forehead against hers, closing her eyes and contenting herself to simply feel his breathing deepen tonight rather than listening.

 

 

When Myranda woke the next morning, she found she had turned in her sleep and was facing the side of the tent, Alistair's deep, even breathing in her ear while Baby snored at their feet. The first rays of light were starting to beam into the tent, accompanied by the first birds, though a few insects continued to add their voices to the early morning chorus. A few heavy drops sounded on the ceiling, dripping off of the trees above them onto the canvas, the last remnants of a rain that had fallen sometime during the night that left the air smelling damp and clean. A soft breeze played with the treetops, causing the trees to sigh softly before more drops hammered down upon the canvas before sliding down the sides, outlined by the sunrise.

She lay silently until it occurred to her that she was actually hearing the sounds of the world around her. Or... was she imagining them? She heard—or felt, she still wasn't sure—Alistair sigh behind her before he nuzzled the back of her neck, slowly stirring to wakefulness. She remained uncertain about the status of her hearing until she heard— _heard_!—him whisper his good morning into her ear.

"I wonder if your hearing will come back today," he murmured. "I hope so. But even if it never does, I'll still love you. Though I'd like you to hear me say it so you'll know."

"I don't need to hear you say it to know that you love me."

"I know, but it is nice to...." Alistair stopped, blinking at her.

"It is nice to hear," she said before rolling over and smiling at him. "Especially whispered like it's a secret... just between the two of us."

He returned the smile before holding her close. "I love you," he whispered softly into her ear.

She clutched him close to her. "I thought I'd never hear you say that again."

"I'll say it as many times as you want. Because it's true. I love you, Myranda."

She smiled at him. "A hundred times would not be enough."

"I could work on a hundred," he said, his fingertips teasing along her spine. "Even during..."

"You know we can't, darling," she interrupted. " _I_ can't."

"I know," he murmured before kissing her just behind her ear. "But that doesn't mean I can't..." his voice trailed off as he started to slowly kiss down her neck to tease her past all reason.

 

 

They picked up Morrigan from where they had camped before facing Flemeth before again turning their steps toward Denerim. Everyone's mood seemed to improve when they learned that Myranda's deafness had faded and that she could once again hear them.

"It is good that you are well, kadan," Sten said when they camped for the night. "You fought bravely."

"Thank you, Sten." She smiled a little at him. "Though I should be thanking you for my life. If you and Asala hadn't killed her in that moment, I would have been so much ash in the wind."

"I owed you a life."

But Myranda could tell the qunari was pleased, though uncomfortable, with her expression of gratitude. "Thank you for helping me help Morrigan."

Sten grumbled, a deep sound reminiscent of distant thunder. "That woman is a viper."

"I'll have to tell Alistair," she said with a grin. "He'll be pleased that you two agree about her."

"Do you know of the _kasaanda_? The... sundew, in the common tongue?"

She shook her head. "I don't believe so. What is it?"

"A flower. That entraps and devours insects."

The blonde laughed at that. "She's not so bad."

The qunari grunted. "Be careful, kadan," was all he said.

Myranda patted his massive forearm before making her way to her tent, ducking inside to retrieve the book. She pulled the thing from her pack and her smile fell instantly, the memory of the battle with Flemeth sweeping over her. Just the thought made her tired all the way to her bones, and she was beginning to wonder if Alistair was right... that it hadn't been worth risking her life. But no. She had made a promise, and a Cousland never went back on her word. With a sigh, she tucked the book under one arm and exited the tent.

Morrigan looked up as Myranda approached her slowly. The blonde woman had a weary look on her face, though it was what she held cradled in her arms that made her gasp. "Mother's real grimoire, is it?" she asked.

Myranda nodded, wordlessly handing the book over.

"I'm glad you were able to find it after all. My thanks for retrieving it." She took the book and looked at the intricately stitched cover before lifting her golden eyes again, the look in them bordering on excitement. "I shall begin studying it immediately and unlock the _power_ that it holds."

The blonde nodded again before turning back toward the main camp.

Morrigan watched her for a moment before something—she didn't know what—drove her to speak. "'Tis a curious thing. I do not know how else to describe it."

Myranda stopped and turned to look back at her. "Is something wrong?"

"No, nothing is wrong. It..." her voice trailed off and a slight laugh escaped her "is a little embarrassing to admit, in fact." She gestured for the blonde to rejoin her by her small fire, and while the Grey Warden returned to the circle of light, she did not sit. "I am reminded of our first meeting in the Wilds," she began slowly, as if searching for the words. "I had been in animal form for some time, watching your progress." She looked at the book in her hands as if it would help her explain what was on her mind. "I was intrigued... to see such a formidable woman, obviously more potent than the men she traveled with." Her golden eyes lifted then to reveal the depths of her puzzlement. "Yet I resented it when Flemeth assigned me to travel with you. I _assumed_ that, at best, you would drive me from your company as soon as we left the Wilds."

Myranda blinked with astonishment. "Why would I do that?"

Morrigan sighed, turning and placing the grimoire by her tent. "I am aware that I have... little... talent for forming friendships. To put it lightly. 'Tis something I know nothing of, nor ever _thought_ I needed." She turned back and stared at the blonde woman curiously. "Yet when I discovered Flemeth's plans... you did not abandon me. Whatever your reasons, you fought what must have been a _terrible_ battle without hope of real reward... even after you grew angry with me."

The Grey Warden smiled a little. "I did it because I'm your friend," she said.

"And _that_ is what I do not understand."

The puzzled look returned to the blonde's face.

"Of all the things I could have imagined would have resulted when Flemeth told me to go with you, the very _last_ would have been that I would find in you a _friend_. Perhaps even a sister."

Myranda's eyes widened a little.

Morrigan stepped closer to her, the look on her face sad... almost ashamed. "I want you to know that while I may not always prove... worthy... of your friendship," she said softly, starting to choke up a little, "I will always value it."

Myranda looked down at her shoes, fighting the stinging in her eyes. "I... I never had a sister," she admitted. "Only a brother, who died on the field at Ostagar." She looked up again. "I'm honored that you would consider me your sister and I'd... I'd like very much for you to be mine."

Morrigan smiled a little, pushing aside the greater part of her distressing emotions. "Then sisters we shall be," she said with an air of finality.

The blonde returned the smile, lifting her chin and nodding, agreeing to the sentiment.

"But enough of such idle talk," the witch said, waving her hand dismissively. "There are more useful things to be done, surely."

Myranda breathed a soft laugh. "I've a question, if I may."

"Of course, Sister."

The Grey Warden knelt next to the fire. "Flemeth is dead," she said without preamble. "What now?"

"Now I have time enough to study Mother's grimoire to find a way to prevent her from stealing my body in the future," the other woman replied as she lowered herself to sit back on her heels.

Green eyes blinked. "In the future?" she repeated. "But we killed her. Last time I checked, death was a permanent state."

"She will be back," Morrigan said. "One day. I have no doubt of that."

Myranda let out a short bark of laughter. "What's death to a six hundred year old witch?"

"Just so," the young witch agreed. "And if I cannot protect myself, one day I _will_ track her down again in whatever body she inhabits... and she will die again. And _again_ , if need be." Her face softened and she smiled again, slightly. "But there is no need to think of such things now. I have you to thank for saving me, so let us... return to the task of dealing with the darkspawn, no?"

The blonde nodded again. She reached out to pat Morrigan's hand, but remembered herself and pulled the hand away. "You know you can always rely on me, right?" she said.

Gold eyes lifted to stare at her in shock. "You..." she began before looking away in embarrassment and dismay, not daring to meet her eyes. "Too much could happen in days to come to... make such promises. Yet I am... grateful." Her head lowered and she looked ashamed as she murmured the last word.

Myranda puzzled over this strange reaction.

"Let us go," she said flatly. "There is much to be done before..." she paused as if she was keeping herself from saying too much. "There is still much to be done."

Emerald eyes met gold and narrowed slightly, trying to figure out the witch's peculiar behavior before shrugging it away, nodding to her and standing before taking her leave.


	39. Specters of the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At long last, we arrive in Denerim for the Landsmeet. We meet with two powerful enemies and dispose of a third threat.
> 
> Some nudity and sexual themes in this chapter.

**Chapter 39: Specters of the Past**

_"One's past is what one is. It is the only way by which people should be judged." Oscar Wilde_

 

The castle was burning around her. Smoke billowed in the corridors around her as she ran, searching. Where was her father? And her mother? And Baby? The sounds of battle rang in her ears; Howe's men had attacked them... caught them unawares. The servants' exit was the natural place to look for them. She raced toward the kitchen and slammed the door open, stopping short at the sight that met her eyes.

Baby lay dead in front of her father, whose life was ebbing away from him with the ever-expanding pool of blood around him. Her mother was being held by the front of her shirt, and Myranda just saw her look over her captor's shoulder and saw the emerald eyes so like her own widen before a sword was slashed across her throat, killing her instantly.

Myranda stared in horror as her mother's corpse crumpled to the floor and the murderer turned to her. It was Rendon Howe. Blood covered the front of his clothes, and he looked at her with a sadistic grin. He spoke then, his voice low and warm... almost fatherly.

"You're next... I'm coming for you..."

 

 

Myranda gasped as she sat up, panting heavily. She stared at the foot of the bedroll, watching as Baby lifted his head and whined at her before crawling on his belly toward her, licking her trembling outstretched hand. She felt Alistair stir and sit up next to her.

"Myranda?" he murmured sleepily.

"I'm sorry, darling. Go back to sleep."

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, it was just a nightmare."

He watched as the memory of the dream seemed to leave her subconscious to settle in her conscious mind, and how her eyes welled with tears at the thought of it. He pulled her gently to him, rubbing her back soothingly as she started to cry.

"How many times must I watch them die?" she whispered, wrapping her arms around him. "I... I can't take it anymore."

"Shh," Alistair hushed her. "I've got you."

"I don't understand why I'm having this dream again."

"We're going to Denerim." He didn't say who they were likely to see there. He didn't have to. He felt her shiver, but it wasn't in fear or despair—it was rage.

"When we catch him," she said, her voice low and laced with vicious poison, "I will personally cut out his tongue. And then I'll move on to his extremities... one by one."

Alistair winced. He didn't like the idea that the woman he loved was a homicidal psychopath, and she laughed darkly when he said as much.

"I'm not a homicidal psychopath. I just want to see the man who murdered my father die by my hand." She looked up at him. "You want the same thing. For Duncan."

He frowned. "But I'm not going to sing and dance on Loghain's corpse after he's dead."

She smiled... a real smile, and it made him feel better. "All right. I promise to keep my singing and dancing to a minimum... and to restrain my urge to bathe in his blood."

"Thank you." He kissed her forehead. "Lie down and go back to sleep now, my love."

Myranda sighed as she lay back down on the pallet, feeling Baby stretching out behind her, his back to hers. "My two favorite boys," she murmured, reaching back to pat the dog before snuggling against Alistair. "What would I do without you?"

"You'd find a way," Alistair murmured.

Baby sighed.

 

 

They were surprised when, two days later, they ran across Arl Eamon's contingent, which had apparently been waiting on them. "Arl Eamon?" Myranda asked.

"I thought it best if we entered the city together, as you may have had trouble getting in."

"Very courteous of you, my lord," she said with a slight smile. "Shall we?"

Upon reaching the city of Denerim, they found it in an uproar suitable to a gathering of every noble in the land. Most recognized Myranda, all recognized Eamon. Crowds parted for them, even without the armed encouragement of Eamon's guards. Leliana and Zevran had vanished from the group, promising to scour the shadows light and dark, respectively, for threats. The others of the group stayed close, Baby walking proudly on Myranda's left, Alistair a step behind her on her right.

"I hope this works," Myranda said as they stepped through the gates to the arl's estate.

"If we defeat Loghain here, the rest of the nation will follow us," the older man told her. "By calling the Landsmeet, I've struck the first blow. The advantage, for the moment, is ours. Loghain will have little choice but to show himself, to oppose us directly." He led the way into the house and looked around, though his sigh was heavy and had the sound of a man bracing himself for a storm—which he was. "He will strike back as us. The only question that remains is how soon."

"My thought is that it will be as soon as word reaches him we've arrived. I expect he'll be here at any moment." She turned to her party—her friends. She wasn't sure if she deserved to call them that as she had kept so much from them, but she had no doubts they would back her through anything. "When Loghain comes—and he will come—say nothing. No matter what transpires, do not move and do not breathe a word." She glanced at Alistair. His secret was about to be known, and she wanted to be sure he was aware of it. He sighed and looked at the floor.

He didn't have time to think about it overmuch, however, as the door on the far side of the reception hall was quickly opened for the three figures. One was a woman in the armor of a knight and warrior, a woman Myranda knew as Loghain's second, Ser Cauthrien. The middle man leading the trio was, of course, Loghain. But it was the man on the teyrn's left who had Myranda's undivided attention and had Baby on his feet, his fur standing on end as he growled loudly and menacingly. He paused when he saw them both, a pause so slight that, if she had blinked, she would have missed it. She didn't blink, and she didn't miss it. Rendon Howe saw her, recognized her, and a cold shock had run through him as quickly as a lightning bolt before he had suppressed it. She saw all this, and her blood ran hot with rage as she stared him down.

Eamon was the first to speak. "Loghain. This is..." he paused for a second too long to be considered polite "an honor, that the regent would find time to greet me personally."

"How could I not welcome a man so important as to call every lord in Ferelden away from his estates while a Blight claws at our land?" Loghain asked, disregarding diplomatic etiquette entirely.

"The Blight is why I'm here," Eamon replied. "With Cailan dead, Ferelden _must_ have a king to lead it against the darkspawn."

The teyrn bristled with resentment. "Ferelden _has_ a strong leader," he countered. "Its _queen_. And _I_ lead her armies."

"Considering Ostagar, I'd say we need a new general," Myranda muttered to Wynne. Then she spoke so the others could hear. "If Anora rules, let her speak for herself."

The teyrn looked at her dismissively. "And who is this, Eamon?" he asked, though Myranda saw that he did indeed recognize her. "Some new stray you picked up on the road?" He ignored the blonde woman's insulted bristle and sent a scathing look at Alistair. "And here I thought it was only royal _bastards_ you played the nursemaid to."

A ripple of surprise and bewilderment went through the group, but as Myranda had warned them, not a word was spoken.

"Well, you're admitting the 'royal' part," Alistair muttered. "That's a start."

Myranda lifted her chin to regard the general with all the cold disapproval her noble blood could muster. "I am Myranda Cousland," she said proudly, "teyrn of Highever."

"The Couslands are dead," Howe said dismissively. "The teyrn of Highever belongs to the Howes, and rightfully so."

"I demand blood rights," the blonde said. "This man murdered my family!"

"You have no rights," Howe said with a laugh. "Your family surrendered them when I revealed them to be traitors to the king." He wisely took a step back when Baby started to advance on him, teeth bared.

"You...!" Fury erupted in Myranda's veins and a hot poison coursed through her at the statement. Her hand went to the hilt of her family sword, but a gentle touch stopped her from drawing it. "Enjoy your moment," she murmured viciously. "It will end soon enough. I will find you and slay you like the _rat_ you are, and I _will_ enjoy it."

Cauthrien looked at her. "You are either very bold or very stupid to—" she cut off her retort when the young woman turned the icy green eyes to her, and she gulped softly as she suddenly recognized her face.

"Enough, Cauthrien," Loghain said to her, waving at her as if to cover for her fearful pause, "this is not the time or place." He looked back at the arl. "I had hoped to talk you down from this rash course, Eamon. Our people are frightened: Our king is dead. Our land is under siege. We must be united now if we are to endure this crisis."

Myranda and Alistair exchanged a look.

"Your own sister, Queen Rowan, fought tirelessly to see Ferelden restored. Would you see her work _destroyed_?" he demanded. "You divide our nation and weaken our efforts against the Blight with your _selfish_ ambitions to the throne."

"What efforts can there be when you outlaw the Grey Wardens?" Wynne demanded.

Loghain looked at her. "Cailan depended on the Grey Warden's prowess against the darkspawn, and look how well _that_ ended. Let us speak of reality, rather than tall tales. Stories will not save us."

"Still spouting that line from Ostagar, are you?" Myranda asked with a condescending laugh. "Is that when you decided to murder your king and take over yourself?"

"I cannot forgive what you've done, Loghain," Eamon said heavily. "Perhaps the Maker can, but not I. Alistair will be the one to lead us to victory in this Blight."

"Oh, is that all I have to do?" Alistair asked sarcastically. "No pressure...."

"Our people deserve a king of the Theirin bloodline," Eamon said, as much to Alistair as to Loghain. "I will do all that I can to make sure that they have one."

Loghain took a step toward the other man until they were almost nose to nose. "The emperor of Orlais also thought I could not bring him down," he snarled. "Expect no more mercy than I showed him. There is _nothing_ I would not do for my homeland." That said, he turned and stormed from the house, his two retainers following hurriedly after him.

Myranda took three quick steps forward as the door was pulled shut, drawing her knife before hurling it toward the door with a scream of rage. It flew through the air and buried itself deeply into the wood where Howe's head had been moments before. Time shuddered, then started again.

Eamon released a heavy breath. "Well, that was... bracing," he said, aware of the understatement. "I didn't expect Loghain to show himself quite so soon."

Myranda turned to him, her eyes cold and filled with rage and hate. "Rendon Howe murdered my family," she said, her voice quivering with the strength of her emotion. "I can't—I _will not_ let him get away with it."

"I would not ask you to," Eamon said soothingly. "But bear in mind that he will be well-protected by his alliance with Loghain."

She scoffed at this, but made no other response.

"He always seemed the kind of man who enjoyed kicking stray dogs," the arl went on. "I would not have thought Loghain would trust him."

"If he's wise, he will not. He has murdered one teyrn, I do not expect he would think twice about murdering another if he thought it would advance him." She looked over at Zevran, who had retrieved her knife from the door, taking it with a nod and an attempt at a smile. He inclined his head a little, acknowledging her smile.

"Alistair...?" Leliana began hesitantly. Everyone knew what she wanted to ask: confirmation for what had been claimed.

"Yes," Myranda answered for him, turning to the redhead as she sheathed the knife. "Yes, it's true."

Alistair himself could only nod in confirmation.

"Well," Morrigan said coldly. "There was a Ferelden king once who drooled on himself in such volume that he required a constant attendant to wipe his chin in court." She smirked. "The kings of old would be pleased to see their bloodline has not strayed very far from its roots."

Myranda closed her eyes. "Please, Sister Morrigan," she said, cutting off Alistair's acidic reply before it could be uttered. "Not now." She took a deep cleansing breath, aided by Zevran's hand on her shoulder, and opened her eyes to look at the arl as the elf's hand slid away. "What now?"

"Calling the Landsmeet is only the start," Eamon replied. "Now we must ensure that every noble there sees Loghain's duplicity. We have no small task ahead of us."

"That much is certain," Wynne said.

"We need eyes and ears in the city," the arl went on. "Loghain has been here for months. The roots of all his schemes must begin here. The sooner we find them, the better we can turn them to our advantage."

"We can do that," Leliana said.

"Go have a look around and see what you can turn up," he told the group. "Better yet, find the nobles who have arrived for the Landsmeet. Test the waters, see how many will support us."

"I know many... many more knew and respected my father," Myranda said, drawing herself up to her full height. "I will speak to them."

Eamon nodded. "Get some rest for now. In the morning, come upstairs to my sitting room. We can lay out our plans for the Landsmeet then."

"Of course." Myranda crossed her arms over her chest and bowed slightly as the arl left the room before turning to Leliana. "You and I have an errand to run," she said, in a tone that brooked no argument. She saw the bard pale, but her look became more determined. She nodded slightly. "The rest of you," she said, turning to them, "do not have to come. But you may, if you would like."

"'Tis Leliana's battle," Morrigan said. "I say let her face it alone."

The bard sighed. "She's probably right, Myranda," she said. "I should face Marjolaine alone."

"No. I told you I would help. We were all attacked, not just you." She looked over the group. "You may join us, or you may stay. The choice is yours. Come, Leliana." She turned and strode from the house, the bard beside her.

In the end, Baby, Alistair, Wynne, and Zevran followed the two women from the estate, though the elf vanished into the shadows shortly after the group reached the streets of the Market District.

"What was the address of the house that assassin gave you?" Myranda asked.

Leliana pulled out the dirty scrap of parchment and peered at it. "There's no address," she said, "but it says the house is on the north-western side of the Market, down an alleyway. The second door on the right should have a sign on the door advertising singing lessons, with an image of a lion beneath."

"Singing lessons," the blonde scoffed. "That's clever. Why not make a little pocket money while plotting murder?"

The group found the appropriate alley and the door and Leliana and Myranda exchanged a look before the latter reached forward and opened the door, stepping inside to find two qunari standing guard in the foyer. Unlike Sten, both of these sported short horns that curved around the crown of their heads. They did nothing but glare threateningly until Leliana stepped over the threshold.

" _Teth a_!" one said, drawing his sword.

" _Vinek kathas_ ," the other ordered as his blade was also freed from its scabbard.

Despite the fact that there were two of them, and both were excellent warriors, they were still no match for the four humans and Baby. In even less of a mood for games, Myranda kicked the inner door open and strode into the house. Her called challenge died when a woman of about thirty-five or forty stepped into the room. Her dark brown hair was swept up into a elaborately simple style, while her eyes regarded them with a superficial warmth that failed to hide the cold calculation going on in their depths. The way she moved set Myranda's nerves on end—it was the movement of a woman on the edge of breaking mentally: the cracks in her sanity were subtle but there, and made slightly more obvious by the ominously delighted gleam that lit her dark eyes when she spied Leliana.

"Leliana!" she cried in a voice that was heavy with an Orlesian accent. "Ah, so lovely to see you again, my dear."

"Spare me the pleasantries, Marjolaine," Leliana said, with a coldness that was surprising, if reassuring. "I know you're—"

"Oh, you must excuse the shabby accommodations," Marjolaine interrupted, unaware or unperturbed by the younger bard's bitterness. I try to be a good host, but you see what I have to work with?" She wrinkled her patrician-looking nose and looked around. "This country smells like wet dog. _Everywhere_. I cannot get the smell out. Even now it is in my hair, my clothes..." She seemed to spot Baby then and a look of utter disgust crossed her face. "Ugh."

"If you don't like it, you could always _leave_ ," Myranda said acidly.

"And we killed your guards," Alistair added for good measure.

Marjolaine waved this away. "Qunari mercenaries," she said dismissively. "Expendable. And this way, I don't have to pay them." She smirked then: a cracked smile. "Good for the both of us." Her smile and her voice became more dangerous then. "But I am not unarmed, or unguarded. I have more men watching, ready to attack on my word, so perhaps we should just talk now, yes?"

"You _framed_ me," Leliana said, unable or unwilling to hide the hurt and betrayal in her voice, "had me caught and _tortured_. I thought that in Ferelden, I would be free of you, but it seems I am not." She stared at the woman who had been her mentor like a lost child. "What happened to make you hate me so?" she asked. "Why do you want me dead so badly?"

Marjolaine looked surprised. "Dead?" she repeated. "Nonsense! I know you, my Leliana." She practically purred the other bard's name. "I know what you are capable of. Four, five men... you can dispatch easily." She walked toward the redhead. "They were sent to give you cause to come to me." She reached out and put her hands on Leliana's shoulders. "And see? Here you are!"

Leliana pulled out of her grasp, taking a step away from her. "You are so transparent," she sneered, her anger having replaced her hurt bewilderment. "What are you up to, Marjolaine? Why are you in Ferelden?"

The older bard frowned a little. "In truth? You have knowledge that you can use against me. For my own safety, I cannot let you be." She laughed at the surprised look on the redhead's face. "Did you think I did not know where you were?" she asked incredulously. "Did you think I would not watch my Leliana? 'What is she up to?' I thought. 'The quiet life, the peasant clothes, hair ragged and messy like a boy... ehh... this is not her.'" She had started to pace during this retelling. "You were planning something, I told myself. So I watched... but no letters were sent... no messages. You barely spoke to anyone." A small smile—a proud smile—crossed her lips. "Clever, Leliana, very clever. You almost had me fooled. But then!" She clapped her hands with excitement. "You left the Chantry, so suddenly." She looked back at Leliana again. "What conclusion should I draw? You tell me."

"More crazy?" Myranda asked. "I thought for certain we were all full up by now."

"You think I left because of _you_?" Leliana asked, stunned. "You think I _still_ have some plan for... for _revenge_?" She stared at the older bard in disbelief for several long moments. "You are insane! Paranoid!"

"And here I thought nobles were the only ones so egotistical," Myranda added. "Not everything is about you, Marjolaine."

"That's right," Alistair chimed in. "The Blight is what concerns Leliana now."

Marjolaine turned to the two Grey Wardens, the corners of her lips lifting in a vicious smile. "Oh, is that what you think?" she asked softly, her voice like a venomous snake in the tall grass of a meadow. "If I were you, I would believe nothing she says. Not a one. She _will_ use you." She gestured to Leliana. "You look at her and you see a simple girl—a friend, trusting and warm." She shook her head pityingly. "It is an act."

"I am not you, Marjolaine," Leliana said. "I left because I didn't _want_ to become you."

"Oh, but you _are_ me," Marjolaine said softly... sweetly... with a poisonous smile. "You cannot escape it. No one will understand you the way _I_ do, because we are one and the same." She started to slowly approach the younger bard, who took a small step back for every step the other woman took toward her. "Do you know why you were a master manipulator, Leliana?" she asked. "It is because you _enjoyed_ the game; you reveled in the power it gave you. You cannot change or deny this."

Myranda stepped beside Leliana, placing a hand on her shoulder to stop her retreat and to show her support. "I trust Leliana," she said, "no matter what you say."

"Thank you," Leliana murmured.

Myranda gave her a half smile, squeezing her shoulder reassuringly before letting her go.

Straightening her shoulders, Leliana addressed her former mentor again. "You will not threaten me _or_ my friends again, Marjolaine. I want you out of my life, forever."

Marjolaine laughed softly. "You think it will be so easy? I told you, you have knowledge that you can use against me. I cannot let you be."

"You know she will hound you as long as she lives," Myranda said softly.

Leliana sighed softly. "You're right," she murmured before turning back to Marjolaine. "You've caused too much pain for too many, Marjolaine. It ends here."

Marjolaine laughed again, a biting, insane laugh. "And you think you can kill me, like that?" she asked incredulously. She suddenly stopped laughing and her face twisted into an ugly sneer. "I made you, Leliana. I can destroy you just as easily!"

The knife was in her hand almost before any of them saw it, though Leliana must have as she countered the blow easily. The battle was long—not helped by the addition of more qunari mercenaries, though they were taken down before Marjolaine. The older bard fought them with great skill, and it was only after Wynne froze her in place that the killing blow was able to be delivered.

Leliana stared down in partial horror at the body of her once mentor, friend, and lover. "It's over," she whispered. "She's dead. She's dead... because of _me_."

Myranda saw the tears welling in the bright blue eyes and stepped over to enfold the other woman in a gentle hug, holding her head gently against her shoulder as the sobs started to rake through her. She said nothing, nor did she hush her; she simply let her cry out her pain and her relief. After several long minutes, she noticed how Leliana's sobs lessened and her hold on her loosened a bit. "Come," she murmured. "Let's take you back to Arl Eamon's." She looked at Alistair and gestured at him, a silent request for him to loot the bodies and to search the house for anything that might be useful. She was answered with a nod and then took the other young woman out of the house.

When they reached the estate, Myranda caught one of the serving girls to ask if rooms had been prepared for them.

"Oh, yes, my lady," the elf girl said. "His Lordship has set aside a whole wing for you and your guests. Follow me, please." She led the way up the stairs and down a hallway to the left, which turned again to the right. The servant gestured to this hallway. "The rooms on this corridor are yours. I believe the two at the end have been taken, and Arl Eamon personally set aside this room for you," she said, gesturing to the first door on the hallway, "but the others are free."

"Thank you," Myranda said. "You have been most helpful."

"Of course, my lady," she said, curtsying before leaving them.

Myranda led Leliana to one of the other rooms and opened the door, breathing the smell of freshly-cut flowers. "Here we are," she said.

Leliana nodded. She had not lifted her eyes since they had left Marjolaine's house. "Thank you," she murmured. "I... I need some time to myself. We... will talk later."

"Of course," the blonde said understandingly. "A hot bath and a night in a deep, soft bed will help you feel better in no time." She tilted her head a little to try to look into the bard's face. "And when you're ready to talk, you know I'm here for you."

The redhead nodded. "I know," she whispered.

Myranda's brow furrowed and she gave the bard a sisterly kiss on the forehead before turning to take her leave. She was at the door when Leliana's voice stopped her.

"Myranda?"

She turned to see the blue eyes locked on her, tears shining in them.

"Thank you. For trusting me... for believing in me."

Myranda smiled. "That's what friends do. Get some rest now. I'll send some servants up with a bath for you later." With that, she closed the door gently and left the bard to her thoughts.

Her own room was probably the largest besides the master suite that would be on the other side of the estate. She looked at the plush bed with its fine silk and linen coverings and decided she would not lay a finger on them until she'd had a bath. She found one of the servants and ordered one immediately and, ten minutes later, was sitting in the metal tub, scrubbing the weeks of dirt, sweat, and blood from her skin and hair. She was halfway through when Alistair walked in. Seeing the smile that crossed his lips at the sight of her in the tub, she raised him a smirk, inviting him to join her.

"You think there's room for me in there?" he asked.

"Possibly. But the water's gone a little cold. I can fix that." She got out, wrapping herself in a linen gown before peeking out into the hall and catching one of the servant girls—the same one that had shown her to the rooms. Questions were answered, arrangements made, and minutes later, the tub was carried away, replaced with a much larger one. This one was filled with steaming water and the fire was stoked up before the servants left the two to their bath and Baby stretched out on the hearth by the tub.

Myranda sat behind Alistair in the tub, scrubbing his back and his hair and managing to lift one of the buckets that had been left to rinse him off. When they were clean, they lounged in the tub, Alistair closing his eyes and nestling his head between Myranda's breasts, his fingers idly teasing along her legs, which were wrapped loosely around his waist. She smiled as he sighed contentedly. "I take it the life of a noble suits you, my prince?" she asked softly, massaging his shoulders.

"Being here with you suits me," he said. "But it will be nice to not have to sleep on the ground."

"Always an improvement." She hesitated for a moment before asking. "Were you ever here as a child?"

"Yes, but it's been a while since I've been here. They've changed the dining room."

She smiled a little, resting her cheek against the top of his head. "You handled the situation this afternoon very well."

"Did I seem nervous?" he asked. "I was."

"I know. But you handled it with great poise. I was quite impressed." She kissed the top of his head. "Even if you were being terribly sarcastic."

A heavy sigh escaped him. "I suppose I'll have to get used to that sort of situation if they're going to make me king."

Myranda laughed softly. "Don't worry, my love," she murmured into his ear, wrapping her arms loosely around his neck. "Nothing is certain yet." She took a sharp breath and releasing it raggedly as his fingertips slid further up her thigh. "Well... maybe a few things are certain."

"Are they?" he asked teasingly.

She slid out from behind him to straddle him in his lap, grinning mischievously at him. "I think so... in fact now I'm quite sure."

Baby woke from his nap at the sound of sloshing water getting louder. He looked up in time to see his mistress get pushed back against the edge of the tub closest to him as her mating became more forceful, the action causing water to splash over the side onto him. She took no notice, but her attentions were elsewhere and he wasn't truly insulted. He stood up, shook the water from his fur and retreated to the other side of the hearth.

 

 

In the morning, after a late breakfast, Myranda and Alistair made their way to the arl's sitting room. Rested and relaxed, it was time to talk strategy. Alistair hadn't wanted to be there, but agreed that, if this ended with him being king, it was important to know how these strategy meetings were held. Myranda knocked twice on the closed door, opening it when bade to enter and was surprised to see that Eamon already had a guest this morning: a petite elf with long, dark brown hair and a worried sense of purpose about her. Myranda couldn't remember seeing her around the estate, so she probably wasn't a servant of the arl's. None of his servants wore silk gowns, either.

"Ah, my lady!" Eamon said, rising from his chair as she entered the room. "I trust you've made yourself comfortable."

"Yes," she said, "thank you, my lord."

"You slept well, I trust?"

Green eyes flitted to Alistair before a devious smile crossed the young woman's lips. "Quite."

"Good," Eamon said with a nod and a smile of his own. He gestured to the elf. "This is Erlina. She's—"

"I am Queen Anora's handmaiden," Erlina interrupted, her voice heavy with an Orlesian accent. "She sent me here to ask for your help."

"...Or perhaps the young lady prefers to speak for herself," Eamon said with an amused smile.

Myranda crossed her arms over her chest. "And why would Anora ask us for help?"

Erlina looked uncomfortable. "The queen, she is in... a difficult position," she said evasively. She looked squarely at Myranda then. "She loved her husband, no? And trusted her father to protect him. When he returns with no king and only dark rumors, what is she to think?" She shrugged at the rhetorical question. "She worries, no? But when she tries to speak with him, he does not answer. He tells her 'not to trouble herself.'" She repeated this phrase with a sneer.

Myranda blinked at her. "Are you saying," she said, slowly, trying to reconcile the information herself, "that the queen _believes_ that her father, Teyrn Loghain, killed Cailan?" It was better news than she could have dreamed.

"My queen suspects she cannot trust her father," the elf qualified. "And Loghain, he is very subtle, no?"

"Quite."

"But Rendon Howe, he is privy to all the secrets and... not so subtle. So she goes to Howe. A visit from the queen to the new arl of Denerim is only a matter of courtesy. And she demands answers."

Myranda laughed darkly. "The new arl of Denerim as well as the pretender to the Cousland seat at Highever. My, how ambitious is my father's friend." She spat the last word like an obscenity. She turned back to the handmaid, tamping down her rage. "I take it the meeting didn't go well," she said with a surprising calm.

Erlina shook her head. "He calls her every sort of name, 'traitor' being the kindest, and locks her in a guest room."

"Loghain would allow that?" Alistair asked.

"King Cailan was like a son to him," the elf said to him, "and Loghain left him to die. Does he love Anora more? Who can say?" She looked back at Myranda. "I think... her life is in danger. I heard Howe say she would be a greater ally dead than alive. Especially if her death could be blamed on Arl Eamon."

Myranda and Alistair exchanged a sharp look. With Anora dead, Alistair would have no choice but to take the throne. "We have to get her out of there," Myranda said, turning back to Eamon. "Quickly. Now."

The elf girl nodded. "Yes. That is what she hoped you would say. Loghain..." she said, her voice trailing off for a moment before deciding to finish her thought. "He has said much about the young Grey Warden who survived. He is worried, no?"

An evil smile curled the blonde's lips. "He should be."

"We may have no choice but to trust Anora," Eamon said. "The queen is well-loved. If Loghain succeeded in pinning her death on me..." his voice trailed off and he shook his head. "I'm not sure that's a risk we can afford to take."

"No," Myranda agreed. "We can't. We have to help."

"I have some uniforms," Erlina said, gesturing to the pile of clothing that had been left behind the door. "Arl Howe hires so many new guards every day, a few more will not cause much stir. We must slip in and out with my queen before anyone is the wiser."

Myranda didn't like the idea of sneaking in, but had to admit that barging into the estate in a murderous rage would probably get Anora killed. "All right. How do we get in?"

"I will show you to the servants' entrance. I will go ahead to Howe's estate; please meet me there as soon as you can."

The three humans watched the elf walk briskly from the room before the realization struck Myranda: they were going to Howe's new, ill-gotten estate. After releasing the queen from wherever she was held, she could find the man himself. A cruel smile crossed her lips. "And now," she said, "the _real_ fun begins."


	40. Vengeance Served

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zevran is freed of the Crows and Myranda has her revenge at last.
> 
> Some scenes are graphically violent.

**Chapter 40: Vengeance Served**

_"An injured friend is the bitterest of foes." ~Thomas Jefferson_

 

Myranda led the way through the streets toward the Arl of Denerim's estate, ducking into back alleys when city guards started to approach. Alistair, Baby, Wynne, and Zevran followed silently in her wake, all of them reading the murderous resolve that surrounded the young woman. As the guards grew more numerous as they grew closer to the Palace District, they stuck to the alleys. Alistair thought about asking how she knew the back streets of the city as well as she did, then decided that he didn't want to know, and he didn't want to ask her in her present state of mind.

She put out her arm suddenly as they walked down a particularly dark alley. "Stop," she said. "Watch your step through here."

"Traps?" Alistair asked.

She nodded. "A lot of them. Including one right..." her voice trailed off as she took two steps forward, quickly disarming the large claw trap in front of where Alistair stood that had the potential to bite through armor and flesh to reach the bone.

Suddenly, an amused voice spoke from the direction of the flight of steps to an old building. "And so here is the mighty Grey Warden at long last."

The group looked up to see the smug-looking man standing at the top of the stairs. His hair and beard were short and black and his swarthy complexion confirmed the suspicion his accent had given: Antivan.

The stranger's grin widened. "The Crows send their greetings, once again."

Myranda stood and started to respond to this when a touch on her arm stopped her. She looked over at Zevran, nodding minutely as she stepped back.

"So they sent you, Taliesen," the elf said evenly, moving to stand halfway in front of the blonde woman in an almost protective stance. "Or did you volunteer for the job?"

"I volunteered, of course," the other assassin said with a grin. "When I heard that the _great_ Zevran had gone rogue, I simply had to see it for myself."

"Is that so? Well here I am, in the flesh." He glared at the human man. "What do you want?"

"I want you," Taliesen said in a silky smooth voice that insinuated many things. "You can return with me, Zevran. I know why you did this, and I don't blame you." A grin that said many things crossed the Antivan human's face. "Anyone can make a mistake," he said. "But it's not too late. Come back and we'll make up a story."

Something in the offer made Myranda's skin crawl. It was like watching a highly venomous snake crawl toward its hypnotized victim. "Don't listen to him, Zevran," she said.

Zevran looked back at her and smiled softly, the look almost affectionate. "I've no intention of leaving you, Myranda."

She smiled a little back at him, a wave of relief washing through her.

"What?!" Taliesen cried, seeing the look. "You've gone soft!"

"I'm sorry, my old friend," Zevran said, turning back to him. "But the answer is no. I'm not coming back... and you should have stayed in Antiva."

An ugly sneer crossed Taliesen's face before he looked up toward the rooftop behind them and nodded.

Zevran saw the nod and knew what it meant, catching Myranda around the waist and pushing her back against the building just before an arrow thudded into the ground where she had been, Alistair, Baby and Wynne ducking under the roof after them. "Stay here," he ordered.

"Zev," Myranda began, stopping at his sharp look.

"They will come to you," he said. "I will take care of Taliesen—kill these others."

She wondered at the intense look in his eyes, but bowed to his greater knowledge and nodded. She watched him sprint across the treacherous trap-laden street before readying her throwing knife, sending it sailing into the skull of a young assassin who had leaned over to throw a flask with some kind of poison in it at them. The body slid off the roof to land into the street, tripping several of the traps that had been set up. The other six assassins jumped down into the street to avenge their fallen comrade, only to be caught in a literal line of ice from Wynne that froze them all in place.

"Only eight?" Myranda asked. "Frankly, I'm insulted." She looked up and saw the ninth assassin baring down on Zevran, who was distracted by Taliesen. She rushed forward, jerking her throwing knife from the assassin she had taken down first before immediately throwing it again, eliminating the threat.

Taliesen noticed, and made the mistake of taking his eyes from Zevran to shoot her an evil look. The look cost him his life, as in the next moment the other Crow's dagger was shoved through his heart. His eyes widened and he stared at the elf in shock before he fell backwards off the blade, falling to the ground and rolling down the stairs.

Zevran stared down at his former colleague and friend before striding with a slow purpose down the stairs again. He looked up as Myranda and the others approached. "And there it is," he said flatly. "Taliesen is dead, and I am free of the Crows."

The blonde watched him carefully, worried at his deliberate movements and flat tone. Even Baby whined worriedly.

"They will assume that I am dead along with Taliesen. So long as I do not make my presence known to them, they will not seek me out."

"That's... a good thing, right?" she asked, suddenly not so sure. The way he was reacting was worrisome. The gentle smile and the warm look that he graced her with next, however, melted her fears.

"A very good thing. It is, in fact, what I had hoped for ever since you decided not to kill me."

Myranda smiled.

"I suppose it would be possible for me to leave, now, if I wished," he mused, almost to himself. "I could go far away, somewhere where the Crows would never find me."

The smile faded.

Zevran caught the disappointed look that was crossing her pretty face. "I think, however, that I could also stay here. I made an oath to help you, after all." He smirked at her. "And saving the world seems a worthy task to see through to the end, yes?"

Myranda smiled a little. "I would be glad to have you stay," she said.

The elf returned her smile. "Then stay I shall," he said. "I'm with you until the end... provided you do not tire of me first," he added, suddenly looking uncomfortable. "Or I die. Or _you_ die." He shrugged as she gave him a strange look. "But there you go."

A slight laugh escaped Myranda. It was the first time he had portrayed anything but satin smoothness in his character, and the slight awkwardness was endearing. "Come on, then," she said, continuing down the alley. "We have other vermin to exterminate."

They continued through the streets as Myranda led them to the Arl of Denerim's estate. Erlina was there waiting for them, on the edge of a large and angry sounding crowd. The Orlesian elf maid rushed to them when she saw them.

"At last you come," she said. Then she noticed their blood spattered clothes. "What happened?"

"We ran into some trouble," Myranda said simply, "and took care of it."

"Permanently," Zevran added.

Erlina looked between them nervously before apparently deciding not to think on it overmuch. "The servants' entrance is on the other side of the house. We must slip past this crowd to reach it. We will have to be very careful: Arl Howe is inside."

Myranda chuckled, darkly and evilly. "Excellent."

"What's the crowd gathered for?" Alistair asked.

"The estate is in poor repair," the elf girl explained. "The new arl, he has not been very prompt in paying his workmen."

"So they want a piece of Howe, too," Myranda said. "Well, I'll try to leave them some scraps to gnaw on."

Erlina looked at her curiously before waving them to follow her with a soft "This way." She ducked around the crowd and led them around the east side of the mansion and down an alleyway before bidding them stop before they stepped into a large courtyard. Two bored-looking guards stood before a doorway—the servants' entrance. The elf maid turned to the group. "I can distract the guards," she told them, "but you must move quickly."

Zevran snorted. "Why bother? There are only two of them."

"I agree," Myranda said. Her brows dropped. "Howe's not _nearly_ as afraid of me as he _should_ be... his mistake."

Baby sneezed.

"More guards patrol every hour," Erlina said. "If they find these two missing, they will know... how you say? Something is amiss."

"Ah, so he _is_ afraid." A feral grin crossed the blonde woman's lips. "Good." She managed to control her sadistic glee and looked at Erlina. "Let's go, then."

"I will lure them into the courtyard," the elf girl promised. "Wait in the bushes."

They moved into the shadows of the tall, shaped topiaries before Erlina ran into the open area, shrieking about seeing a darkspawn. While one of the guards looked taken in by her act—which Myranda had to admit was fairly good—the other was less than impressed. She had to grip Zevran's shoulder when his hand went to his knife as the more skeptical of the guards referred to the handmaiden as a "knife-eared bitch." She didn't approve of the slur, but stealth was called for, and a sudden knife in one guard's back would raise an alarm.

After some discussion between the two guards, they followed the elven girl away from the doorway and past the group—one moving more begrudgingly than the other. When they were out of earshot, Myranda pushed Alistair toward the door. "Go," she whispered. He hesitated, then went, Baby going with him and Wynne following right behind them. Myranda went next, though she and Zevran all but backed toward the door, watching for the guards' return. They didn't, and they sneaked inside the house, pushing the door gently closed.

Alistair released a breath he had apparently been holding. "Now what?" he asked.

"Now we wait for Erlina," Myranda said, softly. "She knows where Anora's being held. We don't."

Ten excruciating minutes ticked by before the door opened again to admit the elven girl. "Warden?" she whispered uncertainly.

"Here, Erlina," Myranda replied from one of the shadows where the group had taken up residence.

Erlina started in surprise before turning to them, catching sight of them a moment later. "Ah! It took me forever to be rid of those two!" she said. "I am glad you made it inside... there are extra uniforms in here."

"Don't bother," the Grey Warden woman said.

The elf girl looked nervous. "You are certain you will not wear the disguise?" she asked. "The servants here... they have no love for Howe, but they will be frightened by strangers bursting in."

"It would probably be easier that way, Myranda," Alistair said reasonably.

"Stealth in the open," Zevran said, a grin crossing his lips.

Myranda sighed. "Fine."

They added pieces of the Arl of Denerim's livery to make them look as any other new guards before Myranda looked impatiently at Erlina, who took a deep breath as if steeling herself for what was to come.

"Andraste guide us," the girl murmured before leading them into the estate.

They ran into no trouble as they strode through the first floor, past the large entry hall and up the stairs to the guest quarters. Erlina led them down one long hallway, then another before coming to a stop outside one of the doors. She walked over to the door and tapped gently on it. "The Grey Warden is here, my lady."

"Thank the Maker!" came the muffled, exasperated response from the other side of the door. "I would greet you properly, but I'm afraid we've had... a setback."

Anora wasn't scared; if anything, the young queen was pissed. Then again, if she had been made a widow by her father's questionable actions and then insulted and captured by a cretin with no scruples whatsoever, played as a pawn by both men, Myranda was sure she'd be pissed, too. "What sort of setback?" she demanded.

"My 'host' was not content with leaving me under heavy guard. He's sealed the door by magic."

Myranda looked back at Wynne for confirmation.

"The seal is very strong," Wynne said. "Only broken by a counter spell by the mage who cast it or his death."

"Damn," Myranda swore. "Now what?"

"We must get her out of there!" Erlina cried.

"Don't panic, Erlina," the queen ordered through the door. "Find the mage who cast the spell. He'll most likely be at Howe's side."

Myranda nodded once. "Fine. I'll be back soon."

"Thank you, Warden. My prayers go with you."

"Teyrn... er... Arl Howe will probably be in his rooms," Erlina said, amending the man's title at Myranda's sharp glare. "They're at the end of the hall, on the left."

Myranda drew her sword. "Stay here," she ordered the girl before striding purposefully and silently down the hall. When they reached the indicated room, Myranda pulled her throwing knife before kicking in the door, lifting the blade to hurl it at her enemy.

The room was empty.

"Search it," Myranda commanded, her voice hard and flat as she slammed her sword and throwing knife back into their sheathes in frustration. "I want everything that could be considered useful: letters, papers, anything."

They made quick work of the room, going over every inch but finding very little that was of use. Myranda picked up a sheaf of papers from the table and flipped through them, her brow furrowing in confusion.

"What do they say?" Wynne asked.

"I haven't the faintest idea," she replied, sounding more like herself as she turned to the last page. "That _is_ the Grey Warden seal, though." She handed them to Alistair. "Can you read them?"

He took them and scanned over them quickly. "No. They're encoded, I know that much, but I couldn't tell you what they say."

Myranda took them back and stared thoughtfully at them. "Why would Howe have Grey Warden documents? Especially if they're illegible?" She pondered this a few moments longer before she shook her head, folding them up and tucking them into her belt. "We'll figure that out later. Let's get down to the dungeon right now. Perhaps the rats are hiding in the cellar."

They made their way quickly down a back stairway to the upper dungeons, checking in every room. Myranda gasped loudly as they opened the door to one of the torture rooms, bringing her hands up to cover her mouth. "Oh, Maker," she breathed, rushing inside.

Alistair followed, horrified at the carnage, waving for the others to stay out. A dozen men, all dead, were scattered around the room on various instruments of torture. They had been stripped of their armor, which lay in a pile in one corner, topped by a large shield with two ferns curling around the center... which Myranda had described to him as the Cousland family crest. He walked over and picked up the shield, weighing it on his arm before making his way over to her.

She stood by one of the torture tables, onto which had been flung another body, tears streaming down her face as she almost reverently positioned the body to lie on his back, his arms by his side. Emaciated, battered, and bruised though he was, there was strength about him. His hair was a brilliant red and his open eyes, though cloudy with death, had in life been nearly the same shocking green color as Myranda's.

"Oh, Rory," she was whispering. "I'm so sorry. Forgive me. Please forgive me."

Alistair frowned, reaching up to close her former lover's eyelids to lessen the look of death. He took Myranda's arm then and squeezed it gently and reassuringly.

Myranda looked over at him and noticed then the shield he now carried—a shield of Highever. She traced the emblem with her fingertips before looking back into his face, biting her lip to keep from completely breaking down. She went immediately into his arms when he pulled her to him, looking down at Roland's bruised and broken body. "You asked me once about Rory," she murmured. "This is— _was_ —him." She looked at her former lover for a few more minutes before kissing her fingertips and placing them to his cold lips.

The poison in her blood suddenly caught fire, and her need for revenge was now insatiable. Bad enough that Howe had forfeited his honor; worse still that he had killed unarmed and innocent women and children and destroyed her family. But to capture these men—including her former lover—and torture them to please his sadistic side... that was not to be tolerated. Her hand curled into a fist. "When we find Howe," she said, her voice shaking with rage, "he's mine. I will kill that Maker-damned son of a bitch with my bare hands."

"We'll have to find him first," Alistair said.

"Then let's go." She turned and strode determinedly from the room, letting the others drift along behind her. They made their way through the first level of dungeons before coming across a set of steps in the middle of the hallway. The group looked at each other before the decision was made to follow them. Myranda lightly descended the steps, emerging into a small room with apparently a single cell—a solitary confinement room. The guard looked over at them and took a step forward to see around the corner of the cell, stepping in front of the bars.

"What? Who goes there?!" he asked. He started to demand something else when he was suddenly pulled back against the cell door. There was a struggle, and the guard's head was twisted violently to the side, his neck breaking with a sickeningly loud crack.

Myranda took a few cautious steps back as she heard the cell door open and the guard's body slid slowly inside, unsure if whoever—or whatever—had been locked up was going to give them more trouble than the guard would have. Her hand strayed to the hilt of her sword in the long silence that followed, waiting. Much to her surprise, the guard reappeared—except instead of the guard it was the prisoner, disguised in the guard's armor. He was a tall, distinguished-looking man, roguishly handsome with long dark hair, glittering blue-green eyes, and the beginnings of a beard. There was a toughness about him, despite the air of compassion that clung to him: the aura of a man who had seen much hardship.

"I thank you for creating such a distraction, stranger," he said in a lightly accented voice, tugging the gloves more firmly into place. "I have been waiting weeks for the opportunity." He looked up at them then. "Do you think you could—" he looked over Myranda's shoulder and started with surprise. "Alistair? Is that you?"

Myranda looked at Alistair. However, he only looked confused.

"Who...?" His eyes narrowed. "Wait," he said slowly as recognition dawned on him. "I _do_ know you. You were at my Joining." He relaxed visibly. "He's one of us," he said to Myranda then. "A Warden from Orlais. Jader, I think. Or was it Montsimmard...?" He looked back at the other Warden. "I'm afraid I don't remember your name," he said apologetically.

"I am Riordan," he said with a bow, "senior Warden of Jader." He smiled a little then. "But born and bred in Highever and glad to be home."

"Myranda Cousland," Myranda said by way of introduction.

"Ah, my lady," he said with another, slightly deeper bow. "I am glad to see you."

"Please," she said, noticing the slight grimace that crossed his face with the effort. "There is no need for such formality. Not here."

He shot her a painful smile. "I thank you, my lady. These few weeks... have not been kind."

"I would say not."

"They took all that I had on me. I'm not sure any of it has survived."

"Are these your papers?" she asked, handing over the illegible documents.

Riordan took them and flipped through them. "Yes," he said finally. "These are my records. The names of the dead I could recognize at Ostagar. What I could find of Duncan's own recruitment records. Copies of the Joining ritual I rescued from our Denerim vault." He looked back up at her. "Those should never be seen by any outside eyes, but I trust in their encryption."

"You should," Myranda said. "None of us could make them out." She allowed a small bubble of hope to build within her. "How large a force did you bring with you?"

"We had two hundred Wardens and two dozen divisions of cavalry."

Myranda and Alistair looked at each other. It was the best news they'd received in months.

"The first we heard of Loghain's edict was when everyone was turned back at the border."

Myranda's heart fell.

"That was when the rumor reached us that Wardens were being blamed for the massacre. We finally decided it was safest to send someone alone, to learn how best to fight the Blight and this regime simultaneously. As a native Fereldan, I volunteered to make the crossing."

Myranda sighed in frustration. "The archdemon is almost here! Will no one help us?" She shook her head. "What are you doing _here_?"

"For the most part, attempting to hold my tongue," he said with a smirk. "I was sent when we received no word from King Cailan as to the outcome at Ostagar. The king had invited all the Wardens of Orlais and their support troops to join him, then... nothing."

"How were you captured?" Alistair asked.

"With an offer of hospitality and a poisoned chalice." Riordan made a face. "I was fool enough to think Loghain didn't yet know who I was."

Myranda's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Where is Howe?"

"I saw him go into the dungeons. He may still be there."

"Then I have some vermin to exterminate in the dungeon."

"And, if you'll pardon me, I've a sudden desire to breathe some free air." Riordan nodded to them. "I will seek you out later—after I find a good physician."

"We're staying with the Arl of Redcliffe," Alistair said, "at his estate near the Market District."

Myranda nodded. "He's an ally of the Wardens," she added. "If you tell him who you are and that you're with us, he should be able to accommodate you."

"Thank you." A soft smile crossed his lips. "And good luck... Sister."

A slight smile crossed her lips. It was nice to hear the title again. She directed him out of the house before turning her steps to another set of stairs that led deeper into the bowels of the estate, the smile melting from her face. They wandered through the dungeon and into a large central room when a voice caused all of them to stop.

"Well, look here. Bryce Cousland's little spitfire! All grown up and still playing the man."

Myranda slowly turned to face the vile man. Howe had said the words in a tone of mocking pride and it made her sick.

"I never thought you'd be fool enough to turn up here." He chuckled maliciously. "But then, I never thought you'd _live_ , either."

She smiled darkly. "Glad to disappoint you," she said. "It won't be the last time. You'll pay for what you've done."

"Is this about your family?" he asked in apparent shock. " _Still_? But I have done so much more than wipe your name from Fereldan memory." He watched with demented pleasure as the young woman in front of him quivered with rage. "And what's left? A fool husk of a daughter likely to end her days under a rock in the Deep Roads. Even the Wardens are gone." He scoffed. "You're the last of nothing. This is pointless." He smirked suddenly. "You've lost."

Myranda closed her eyes, hardening her hurt and fury into a ball of cold steel. Her shivers stopped and she opened her eyes again to regard her father's murderer. "I know your game," she said, her voice soft and dangerous. "No shadows. No lies." She drew her dagger then and pointed it at him. "Just you and me."

The smile faded from Howe's face. "There it is," he said. "Right there. That damned look in the eye that marked every Cousland success that held me back." His look changed then to one of begrudging respect. "It would appear that you have made something of yourself after all. Your father would be proud."

Myranda allowed herself to smile, though it was a haughty smile, as though she had forced him to admit something he'd wished to hide.

"I, on the other hand, want you dead more than ever."

"I'm not that easy to kill. You've failed once, you shall fail again."

"We'll see about that." He turned to the guards. "Get them!"

Six guards rushed the group while a mage lobbed fireballs at them. Alistair took out this last with a few of his templar abilities, while Myranda slashed through the group before finding herself facing Howe again. "You're mine," she said.

"Fine." He smiled viciously at her, drawing his sword. "I'll take great pleasure in exterminating the last Cousland myself!"

Myranda met his smile with a malicious smirk, rushing forward to meet his strike.

They were still fighting when the others finished taking down the guards. Zevran started to go to Myranda's aid, but Alistair held out his arm, stopping him. When the elf assassin looked up at him, he just shook his head.

"This is her battle," he said. "She'd never forgive us if we interfered."

Myranda's rage knew no limits. Though Howe was more skilled than she thanks to years on the battlefield, she was younger, faster, and more agile. Steel clashed loudly again and again, neither opponent seeming to hold the upper hand. They locked blades for a moment and Myranda spit in his face before being shoved away.

"That was for Oren," she said.

Howe wiped his sleeve across his face, sneering at her. "You little bitch."

"How dare you presume call me names! What kind of fiend slaughters children?"

"Well I couldn't leave any heirs, could I?" The derisiveness was back. "Peck away at me if you wish, you will still lose and my honor will remain intact."

Myranda growled at him. "You destroyed your honor when you murdered my family, and I'll make you pay for what you've done!"

"Isn't that precious," he said, mocking her. "Is this when I lament the monster I helped create?"

"My father _trusted_ you! Called you his _friend_. How _dare_ you call _me_ the monster!"

"You're so new to this." He shook his head in contemptuous pity. "Shall I show you how it's done?" A cruel smile crossed his lips then. "I made your mother kiss my feet before I killed her."

"Shut up!"

"It was delicious... the last thing your father saw before he died."

" _Bastard!_ " Myranda screamed, lunging at him. "I'll cut out your lying tongue!"

The sudden increase of her rage caught Howe off guard and he found himself on the defense against her vicious blows. Time to end this, once and for all. He lunged at her and she dropped to the floor in the last second, letting the blade slice through the air where her stomach had been mere moments before. She lashed out with a vicious kick into his groin, eliciting a groan from the two men behind her and causing the arl to drop his sword and stumble backwards, gasping for breath.

"That was for Oriana," she said as she stood slowly. She picked up his sword where he had dropped it, weighing the blade in her hand as she strode toward the vile man, hunched over in pain. Rage swept through her, invigorated by the sweet taste of revenge.

But she could not gloat. She saw the dagger in his hand and only just spun out of its reach, ducking behind him and plunging her own dagger into his back. Howe stopped, making a choking sound in his throat as the dagger fell from his grip. She leaned forward to murmur almost intimately into his ear, "That was for my brother." She pulled the dagger from his back before kicking the man to his knees. She circled to stand in front of him, lifting the arl's chin with the tip of his sword. She looked down at him with no emotion as she moved the blade's tip to his chest before plunging it between his ribs, burying it almost to the hilt. "That was for my mother." She sheathed her dagger and drew the Cousland sword, the sword of her family, watching him look at it before his eyes went back to her face. "And this," she said, "this is for my father."

Howe stared up at her with pure hatred. "Maker spit on you," he gasped. "I... deserved... more!"

She stared at him a moment, her rage and hate rushing through her veins. Then, with a savage yell, she lifted the blade and separated the arl's head from his body.

Myranda stood, panting softly as she watched the body waver before falling over, blood oozing everywhere. She could feel the eyes of her companions on her back and knew what their reactions were. Wynne would be horrified by her show of brutality, the way she had toyed with her victim and caused pain before releasing him to death. Zevran would have watched with the trained eye of a professional killer, and would not disapprove of the murder, though perhaps of the slowness of the killing. Alistair would be the only one to truly understand her motives. He was the only person alive who knew. He would have understood that this was a revenge killing. But he would not approve. She knew that now.

She didn't need their approval. Gathering saliva in her mouth, she spit on the body of the man who had murdered her family before turning to face her companions, gathered behind her. Wynne's face showed as much horrified surprise as she had suspected, Zevran's as much calculated interest as she'd anticipated, and Alistair simply stood as silent witness, as she'd known he would. The group parted as she passed, saying nothing as they followed her back toward the upper dungeons.

Their path back up toward the main house led them through another part of the prison block, which apparently had been Howe's favorite as the cells here were full. And one of the first voices they heard raging in the dimness Myranda recognized.

"Who's there?" it demanded with self-important vigor. "You can't do this to me! I'll have you all flayed! I'm the arl of Denerim!"

Myranda growled when she recognized the owner of the voice: a young man a few years older than her with short red-blond hair and a cruel set to his jaw. He was one of those nobles that took his satisfaction when he wanted it, regardless of whether the consent was mutual or not. He'd always made her skin crawl, but while Vaughan talked a good fight, she'd nearly slit his throat twice and came close to unmanning him on one special occasion—this last happened in front of his cronies. He'd stopped harassing her after that. "Shut up, Vaughan," she spat as she stepped into the torchlight.

Vaughn Urien's mouth dropped open and his eyes widened in fear, either at the sight of Myranda or the amount of blood on her clothes or both. "L-l-l-lady Cousland!" he stammered. "I... I did not..."

"Shut up and tell me what happened," she commanded.

The young nobleman shut his mouth, swallowed and then explained. "Too many of our troops were lost at Ostagar," he said. "When the riots started, Howe came with men to reinforce the garrison here." A sneer crossed his lips. "Or that's what he claimed. As soon as I let him into the palace, he threw me in here. 'One more victim of the elven uprising,' he said."

"That elven uprising wouldn't have anything to do with you, would it?"

"Damned knife-ears need to learn their place." He stopped when she grabbed him and pulled him toward her to slam him against the bars, gulping when she held her still-bloody dagger against his throat.

"I warned you to stop using such language in my presence," she said, her voice low and dangerous. "And I told you if I ever held my blade to your throat again you would have two smiles and not just one. Do I need to make good my threat?"

Vaughan winced as the point of her dagger pressed into his skin, feeling the warm stream of blood that started to run down his neck. "I'll do anything!" he whined. "Please just... let me out of here! Alive," he qualified.

"A Landsmeet has been called," Myranda said. "I need your voice. You will side with me against Loghain." It wasn't a suggestion; it was a threat.

"Of course! Anything! Just let me out!"

She tossed the other noble away from her before finding the key and unlocking the door. "Very well, you can go."

"I swear, you won't regret this!" He started to reach for her hand when she lifted it as if to slap him, causing him to cringe away.

"Get out of my sight!" She glared after him as he ran from the dungeon, holding a hand to his neck where she had cut him. She followed before another another voice echoed through the darkness.

"I demand that you release me!" said the warm, rich, cultured tenor.

Myranda peered through the shadows at the blond young man whose wrists were tied to the ceiling in a position that would have been excruciating after a few seconds. His body, stripped to the waist, also showed signs of recent torture. He glared at her, obviously unable to see her through the shadows as she unlocked the door to his cell.

"Was this supposed to be a lesson?" he demanded. "Did my father think it _funny_ to leave me for so long before sending you?"

She took a few steps toward him, almost unwilling to believe: this was the only son of another of her father's friends, Bann Sighard. "Oswyn?"

Oswyn blinked in surprise. "My... my lady Myranda! Did... did my father send _you_?"

"I haven't seen your father, no."

He smirked at her. "I'd offer you the proper courtesies, but I'm a bit tied up at the moment."

A tiny smile lifted the corners of Myranda's lips. Oswyn had been beaten and tortured, but they hadn't broken his spirit and taken his wry sense of humor. That was good: she'd always liked those qualities in him. "Let's cut you down, at least."

"My shoulders would thank you."

She looked at Alistair, who nodded and drew his sword to cut through the rope binding Oswyn to the ceiling. Myranda held the young man's arms as he slowly lowered them with a painful grimace. "Will you be all right?"

"I should be as soon as I regain some feeling in my fingers." Oswyn removed the last of the rope and rubbed his wrists contemplatively. "If my father sent no one after me," the young noble said, "I can only assume that he does not yet know the true colors of the snakes he has allied with." He looked at her again. "But if you talk to him, I'm certain he would offer you any reward you might ask."

"Would he side against Loghain at the Landsmeet?"

"Then there is a Landsmeet after all?" he asked. "Howe said the Arl of Redcliffe was dead, and the Landsmeet called off."

Myranda smirked viciously. "Wishful thinking on his part, I assure you."

He took her hand in both of his. "I swear," he said, "if there be any forum to speak out against Loghain, my father will be there."

"Thank you," she said, patting his hand gently.

Oswyn smiled and nodded. "Now, please... I must try to get to him. I... I cannot see the last of this place too soon."

They gave the young noble directions on how to get out of the dungeon, starting to follow him before another voice, more timid and unfamiliar to Myranda, called out.

"Hello? Is someone still there?"

"Yes," Myranda called back. "Where are you?"

"Here." A hand appeared in the gloom of a small side hallway that they might have missed entirely. "In here."

Alistair grabbed a torch from a nearby bracket and followed Myranda down the small hallway, lighting the quasi-oubliette and the elf held in the cell there. He was young, probably not even as old as Myranda, with short, dark brown hair that was matted and unwashed and soft grey eyes.

"What month is it?" the elf asked. "Are you some enemy of Arl Urien's? Please... I feel like I've spent half my life down here."

"Who are you?" Myranda asked gently. "Why were you imprisoned here?"

"My name is Soris," the prisoner said. "The arl's son... he abducted my bride on our wedding day. When I tried to rescue her..." his voice trailed off in horror.

Emerald eyes narrowed. "What did he do?" she asked softly.

"I don't remember," Soris said, shaking his head. "She was screaming, and he was on top of her laughing. I charged at him... and woke up here." He looked at her. "I don't know if she's even still alive."

Myranda filled in the blanks and by Zevran's soft growl, so did he.

"People were so angry," the imprisoned elf went on. "They were thinking of petitioning the king...."

"The king is dead," Alistair told him. "Loghain rules in his place."

"For now," Myranda said, her voice holding a deadly promise.

Soris stared at them, looking from one to the other in shock as he took in all this information. "There have been... many changes since they caught me," he said at last. "I... I need to find out what happened. I-I need to get home. Or... or flee the city. I...."

"Go home first," Myranda said as she unlocked the door to his cell. "See to your family and let them know you are alive, at least."

"I thank you for your aid, stranger," Soris said. "I... I wish I had more than gratitude to offer."

Myranda watched him stagger out of the dungeon block, pursing her lips in thought. "Zevran."

"Myranda?"

"You remember Vaughn, do you not?"

Zevran growled again. "I do. And now I cannot say I approve of your releasing him."

"I need his voice in the Landsmeet." A cruel smile crossed her lips. "After that point, however, he will no longer be useful... and I foresee an unexpected and unfortunate deadly accident in the young arl's future."

The assassin chuckled softly. "Have you any idea how beautiful you are when you are planning a murder?"

"A girl has to find her fun somehow."

They continued through the dungeon, past Riordan's solitary confinement cell and back into the uppermost level of the dungeons. They started back toward the stair that would take them back into the main part of the estate when Myranda stopped, staring down the corridor for a moment before setting her steps in that direction. The others looked at each other in confusion before following. Halfway down, they heard a voice.

The muttering was almost incomprehensible, but it was violent and the word 'cage' featured prominently. They reached the cell to find the prisoner inside had black hair, a prominent nose, and a strong jaw that was covered by a matted beard. He wore the armor of the Denerim city guard. When he saw them he rushed the bars with such ferocity despite a dragging left leg that they all took a small step back. "Get me out of here," he growled. " _Now_."

Myranda peered through the gloom at the prisoner. "Soren?"

Hazel eyes blinked in shock. "Moneca," he whispered, "is that you, little sister?" He narrowed his eyes then. "No... I don't know you... do I?"

"Soren," Myranda tried again. "Don't you remember me? Your sister and I were friends."

"Myranda?" Soren blinked at her in shock, reaching out to take her hand. "Andraste's tits... I'd heard you were dead."

"Rumors only."

"Where is my sister?" Soren asked. "Have you seen her?"

"I haven't... not yet. I imagine that she's in town however."

"Get me out of this cage and I'll find her."

"I don't know," she said teasingly. "I think I rather like the arrangement."

Soren narrowed his eyes. "Myranda..."

She allowed a small smile to cross her lips and she squeezed the young man's hand. "I'll get you out of here." Her smile vanished then and she was serious again. "You can barely stand on that leg. I don't imagine you can walk on it."

"It's... difficult." It was obviously a great concession.

"Soren," she said warningly. "No heroics. I don't want to explain your death to Moneca."

He sighed in aggravation. "It feels like the bone's about to punch through the skin, so, no. I can't walk on it very well."

"I can heal some of his injuries at least," Wynne offered.

"Thank you, Wynne," Myranda said, releasing the young man's hand and backing out of the mage's way. "Zevran, find the key to the cell."

"Who is that?" Alistair asked softly.

"Soren Alfstanna," Myranda said. "He's a lieutenant in the Denerim City Guard. His younger sister Moneca is bann of the lands of Waking Sea and was one of my only friends as a child... mostly because she could keep up with me in swordplay. She was often my sparring partner. She's a little... strange... but she's a good friend and I'm proud to call her mine. Soren used to tease us constantly, but he's a good man with a good heart."

Zevran came back with the key and unlocked the door and Wynne made quick work of healing the more superficial injuries after helping the young guardsman to sit.

"The leg is broken in several places," she said after several long minutes.

"An injury that would have killed a lesser man," Soren said with what could only be called a proud smirk.

Myranda walked over and kicked the bottom of his right boot. Hard. "Can you do anything for it?" she asked Wynne.

"I could heal it, but my mana's running a little low."

"Can we set it?"

"Find me something to set it with, and I shall."

"No," Soren said. "Myranda."

Myranda went to the other noble's side, taking the dagger that he handed to her. It was long and slender, the blade was mottled black dwarven steel while the quillons were blackened steel. The hilt was black enamel while the round silver pommel gleamed brightly, the ship's wheel and waves that made up the crest of Waking Sea embossed upon it.

"Take this to Moneca," he said. He looked away then. "Tell her... tell her I'm... sorry. Please."

"Soren, you're going to be _all right_ ," Myranda said. "I promise."

"Don't tell her how you found me... that I'm here... that I was _caged_ like an _animal_." He sounded humiliated by the very idea.

Baby barked.

Myranda gave him a look. "If I give her this dagger and don't tell her anything else, she'll think you're dead. And when she finds out you're alive, she'll make that rumor of my death a reality. You know that."

Soren chuckled, a dark rich sound. "All right. I'll try to drag myself out of the dungeon, at least."

"I think we can help you with that."

The party helped the wounded guardsman out of his cell and up the stairs to the master bedchamber, where Soren insisted they leave him. The bed was more comfortable than the dungeon floor, he said, and he probably needed a few decent hours' sleep. After some deliberation, they armed and left him, heading back to the room where Anora was being held.

The door was open by now, and Anora was dressed in the uniform of the arl of Denerim's guard and was just settling a helmet over her head. She looked up when the other blonde entered, lifting an eyebrow at the amount of blood that covered Myranda, but she did not comment on it. "My thanks," was all she said.

Myranda nodded to her. "Let's go."

Anora nodded. "I'll trust you to lead us safely out. If Howe's people find me, I'll be killed. And my people will insist on escorting me back to the palace... where my father may _also_ have me killed."

"Then let's not get ourselves caught."

They were barely out of the room before a shout went up, calling an alarm.

"Shit," Myranda swore. "I guess they found Howe."

"What's left of him, anyway," Zevran said.

Myranda looked at Erlina hard. "Take her Majesty and run. Do not stop for anything until you get to Arl Eamon's estate. Do you understand?"

"Y-Yes, my lady." The elf girl looked at her mistress. "This way, my queen."

The Grey Warden turned her back on the two escapees to face the force headed toward them: ten fighting men, headed by the woman who had been at Loghain's right hand when the teyrn had visited Eamon the previous day.

"Warden!" Cauthrien called, halting her men a few feet away. "In the name of the regent, I am placing you under arrest for the murder of Rendon Howe and his men-at-arms. Surrender, and you may be shown mercy."

Myranda drew herself up to her full height. "Rendon Howe and his men-at-arms are dead because they stood against me. I am here to free Queen Anora, who was being held captive by your regent's precious pet."

The other woman scoffed. "Don't be ridiculous. The queen isn't being held prisoner here or anywhere else. Her father would never stand for such a thing."

A cruel smile crossed the Grey Warden's lips. "You know that for certain?" she asked coolly. "Are you _sure_ of your allies and their principles?"

Cauthrien's dark brown eyes narrowed and she glared at the three humans. "Unlike you, some of us know what honor and loyalty are. I have no doubts about Loghain."

Myranda clicked her tongue in mocking sympathy. "Oh, Cauthrien..."

" _Ser_ Cauthrien!" the knight corrected her harshly. She nearly quailed at the cold look thrown at her by the noblewoman.

"The only reason you are _Ser_ Cauthrien," Myranda said haughtily, "is through the good grace of my father, who backed you." The cold smile returned to her lips. "You know who I am. You recognized me yesterday, didn't you? After your _precious_ lord and his _pet_ assured you that I was dead along with my family." She took a step toward the other woman and drew her sword and dagger, noticing how the knight's dark eyes flitted to them and obviously took note of the amount of blood on them. "And now you have to face me, a woman you've always hated and feared, unsure if I am a ghost." She laughed softly. Mockingly. "Poor little fool. I have killed more than one man today—gladly. And I will kill you, too." The humor was gone in an instant. "Now, get out of my way."

"Bring them down!" Cauthrien cried. "Loghain wants the Warden dead or alive!" She paused and blinked when her men did not surge past her to engage the party. She turned around to look at them to find they were all dead, the elf she thought she had seen with the party when she first approached standing behind them, blood dripping from his daggers. She looked back at Myranda then to find they were suddenly face-to-face and the shock of that did not recede before a sharp pain and cold sliced through her belly.

"I warned you," the blonde said, murmuring almost intimately to the dying woman, "I would kill you if you did not get out of my way." She ripped her dagger from the other woman's body before slashing it across the knight's throat, letting the corpse collapse to bleed over the floor at her feet. "Now then," she said coldly, sheathing her bloody dagger. "Let's hope there are no more interruptions."


	41. The Proposition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Myranda's relationships with Zevran and Alistair change.

**Chapter 41: The Proposition**

_Let not our proposal be disregarded on the score of our youth. ~Virgil_

 

Back at Arl Eamon's estate, Myranda stood in her room, staring out the window at the city. The sun was starting to set, the market stalls were closing for the night—except for the food stalls, which offered up an aromatic bombardment for those looking for a meal. She didn't answer as two taps sounded on the door, nor did she turn when the door opened a moment later. She listened to the door click softly shut, refusing to turn even as footsteps crossed half the length of the room. She could feel his eyes on her, but she wouldn't face him. "You don't approve," she said flatly.

Alistair knew exactly what she was referring to, but was unnerved by the icy indifference in her voice. It was the voice of the woman he'd met in Ostagar, who had hardened herself against the world to avoid feeling its pain and sorrow... the dark sister of the woman he loved. "I understand," he said finally.

"But you don't approve." Resentment for the fact boiled up from nowhere. "And you know something? I don't _care_ if you approve or not! I killed that Maker-scorned son of a bitch to avenge my father! And I took great pleasure in the killing!" She lashed out with her fist, sending a pitcher of water crashing to the floor with a loud clang that made Baby whimper and cower away from her. " _Here_ is your goddess!" she shouted. "Your pure, perfect, innocent _angel_! Look at her and know her for what she truly is: a savage, cold, bloodthirsty _murderer_!" She finally turned to him and stopped at the look of compassion on his face, softening immediately. "Oh... oh, Alistair, I'm sorry. I don't... I just..."

"I know," he said. "And it's over now."

The last three words struck Myranda suddenly and something came over her in that moment. Her body started to shudder violently, and she was powerless to stop it. She started to pant, hard and harshly, as if she couldn't breathe. Her knees buckled beneath her, and she leaned heavily on the window ledge to keep from falling. Something rose in her throat, something between a scream and terrible, cruel laughter, and she fought to keep it back.

Alistair walked quickly over to her, gathering her into a gentle embrace. Her hate had been like a poison inside her, and now that the source was dead she had to release it. "It's over now," he repeated. "Let it go, my love."

The noise in Myranda's throat escaped her control, and turned out to be a sob. She clung tightly to him, her breathing hard and fast as the overwhelming whirl of emotions crashed down on her like a giant wave. Her revenge was complete: Howe was dead at long last. She had avenged her father, as she'd sworn to do that fateful night so many months ago. It was over. She had won.

Alistair held her through this storm, rubbing her back gently and murmuring soft reassurances to her. Through her screaming and crying, the poison began to leech itself out, and he held her in his arms as she clutched him to her, quivering. He gently held her wrist when she started to pound her fist against his chest, and in that moment, having her last violent outlet taken from her, she seemed to completely collapse emotionally. She was so fragile... and he was shocked to discover it. In an instant her strength had crumbled and she was a frightened and lonely little girl whose family had been ruthlessly taken from her, weakened by hate and lost in the chaotic storm that was the Blight. She clung to him as if he was the only thing real in a dark, horrifying nightmare that she couldn't escape. This was perhaps one of the lowest points in the Grey Warden woman's life: emotionally scarred and psychologically battered... and he loved her all the more for it.

Slowly, slowly, her shock started to recede. Though she continued to tremble, it was without violence. Her shrieks lessened to quiet whimpers. The tears, however, continued to fall. "He was right," she said at last, the whispered words choked by her sobs. "I'm a monster."

"You are _not_ a monster," Alistair murmured to her.

"But I took great pleasure in the death of my enemy. I stewed and distilled my hatred until it ate away my soul. I planned his death so carefully and then took my revenge on him slowly." She lifted her tear-stained face to look at him. "How does that make me any different from him?" she asked desperately.

"If he hadn't murdered your family, would you have killed him?"

Myranda blinked. "I... no."

"And now that he's dead, are you going to take Amaranthine?"

"No."

Alistair smiled gently at her. "That's what makes you different. You don't kill for power or status. You kill when you must. I told you: evil doesn't worry about being good."

"But..."

"No one could blame you for wanting justice."

"Vengeance," she corrected.

He ignored this. "I want Loghain to pay for what he did at Ostagar... does that make me a monster?"

"No."

"Then stop thinking of yourself that way. You're not like Morrigan... you couldn't be like her, even if you wanted to. In your heart you are a good person, righteous, true and pure. How could you think that I'd love the woman you described?" he added as he brushed a soft kiss against her forehead.

She closed her eyes and leaned her head against his shoulder. "The Maker knows I don't deserve you," she whispered. "How am I lucky enough to have you in my life?"

Alistair smiled and nuzzled her hair affectionately. "I think I'm the lucky one," he told her. "After all, you have status and prestige, and not just because you're a Grey Warden. You could have any man you wanted. Everyone in Ferelden knows you and respects you because of your family."

She seemed to wilt slightly at this. "Little good any of that does me," she said. "I'm the last of nothing."

"You don't believe that, do you?" Alistair asked in surprise. "You, who assured me that the Wardens could be rebuilt, even though there were only the two of us?" He looked at her. "And we have a start. We have Riordan now."

"Three does not an order make." She sighed. "But, yes, it's a start. And he's a Senior Warden, so he knows things that we don't. How to prepare the Joining being the most important." She shook her head. "But I don't care about that right now," she whispered. She squeezed her eyes shut, snuggling closer to him. "Just hold me... hold me and tell me that you love me."

"You know I do," he murmured. "I love you more than anything, Myranda. I can't imagine my life without you." He tightened his arms around her when the words only made her start to cry again. He cursed Howe's memory for doing this to his Myranda... his beautiful and wonderful Myranda. How dare he make her feel this way! "Myranda," he whispered. "Dearest Myranda."

He scooped her up into his arms and carried her to the bed, laying her gently down on it before climbing in next to her. He lay next to her, holding her gently and slowly rubbing her back, letting her cry. He hushed her when sobs raked through her, murmuring soft words of comfort against her hair. She finally grew still and it was several moments later that he realized that she'd fallen asleep. He smiled gently before hugging her tighter. His dear, sweet Myranda... perhaps sleep was her best medicine.

 

 

It was after midnight, but Zevran couldn't sleep. The elf wandered the estate house restlessly. Not at all how he'd thought he'd feel after escaping the Crows. But... Taliesen. Ah, that was the difference. But he had deserved to die. He knew it, but it didn't make the death any easier to swallow. He snorted to himself. How ironic: he, a trained assassin, was feeling queasy about a murder he had caused.

But the son of a bitch had deserved to die. He had. For crimes committed in the past, death was a just reward. He deserved to die after he convinced him that they had to kill...

"Zevran?"

He turned quickly, dagger in hand, to see Myranda in the doorway to the dining room, holding up her hands in surrender. In one of them she held the heel of a loaf of bread that she had apparently taken from the larder.

"Easy," she said. "It's just me."

"Ah, forgive me," he apologized, sheathing the dagger. "Old habits, you know."

"I understand."

He grinned at her. "Raiding the larder, I see."

Myranda looked at the piece of bread in her hand and smiled in slight embarrassment. "I was hungry. One of the side effects of being a Grey Warden is an increased appetite. So I came down for a snack."

"Alone?"

"I saw no reason to wake Alistair. He needs his rest." She smiled a little. "I wouldn't mind some company, though, if you'd like to join me."

"By all means." He followed her into the dining room, his eyes straying down to her shapely hips.

"Some wine? It's Orlesian... though I think I saw a bottle of aged Antivan brandy in here somewhere..."

"The wine will be sufficient," he said, noticing she had claimed the seat to the left of the head of the table and deciding to take the arl's chair for himself. It was with no small amusement that he noted the large number of plates surrounding her place: one held only the sauce from what had been a savory dish of meat and vegetables, another was piled with half a dozen rib bones—no doubt from what had been left of the evening's roast—and innumerable crumbs from not only the loaf of bread but any number of other various pastries littered the area. "'Snack' indeed," he said with a chuckle.

Myranda placed the goblet she had fetched from the cabinet in front of him on the table, swallowing the piece of bread she had popped into her mouth as she poured the elf some wine. "I told you," she said defensively, "I was hungry."

"Yes, yes. A side effect of being a Grey Warden." He smiled suggestively at her then. "I've also found hunger to be a common side effect of certain midnight pleasures, as well."

Myranda found herself laughing softly despite the blush that crept up her neck. "It is indeed," she said, pouring some more wine into her own goblet and resuming her chair.

"Perhaps that is the reason Alistair is in need of some rest?" he asked. "You have... overtaxed him, yes?"

The Grey Warden's blush deepened as she twisted her cloth napkin in her hands. "I... well... I don't know that I'd say that..."

"I tried to give him some advice on how to pleasure you more completely not so long ago."

"So I heard."

"Ah! Did you?"

"Yes. And I'll have you know that I have no complaints about his performance."

"That is good, at least." His eyes wandered down from her face. "Such a magnificent woman deserves to be worshiped while making love." His soft brown eyes lifted again to her green ones, the look there unmistakable.

Myranda picked up her goblet of wine, grinning coyly at him despite the heat of the blush in her cheeks. "How do you know he doesn't?" she asked.

Zevran laughed. "Very well," he said, taking up his cup and tilting it toward her slightly in a show of a toast. "I bow to your greater knowledge."

She inclined her head slightly before taking a small sip of wine. "Care to answer some questions?" she asked.

"If they're dirty ones, certainly."

She smiled, but continued undeterred. "Will you tell me about that last mission now?" He had started to mention it once, but had said nothing about what had happened, and no amount of wheedling from her had budged him.

All the humor left his features and he sighed heavily. "Yes, I suppose it is time," he said quietly, placing his wine back on the table. "You have been a good friend to me, after all. There is no reason to be silent."

Myranda put down her own goblet, frowning at his sudden seriousness.

Zevran looked down at the polished tabletop. "There is a reason I accepted this mission in Ferelden, far away from home, and it had nothing to do with any thought that I might leave the Crows. Meeting you, after all, was quite an accident." He lifted his eyes to hers again. "My last mission before this one... did not end well."

One of the great understatements of the Age. "What happened?" she asked quietly.

"You must realize," he said by way of preface, "that until that day I was cocky and arrogant. Yes, I know," he said with a slight smile as she lifted an eyebrow at him. "Hard to believe."

Myranda smirked a little but said nothing.

"I was the best Crow in Antiva, I believed, and I bragged of my conquests often... both as an assassin and lover."

"And then what?"

His slight smile faded again. "One of the Crow masters grew tired of my boasting. My bid for an incredibly difficult mark was accepted, much to my surprise: A wealthy merchant with many guards and completely silent.

"Taliesen agreed to be part of my team, as well as an elven lass named Rinna. She was..." His voice trailed off as he looked unseeingly at the far wall. "She was a marvel," he said finally, his voice soft with an emotion Myranda never thought she'd hear from him. "Tough, smooth, wicked. Eyes that gleamed like justice. Everything I thought I desired."

Myranda smiled a little. "And you fell in love."

He shook his head slowly. "Rinna was special. I had closed off my heart, I thought, but she touched something within me." He looked at her. "It frightened me."

The blonde woman nodded. "I understand," she said softly. "I know that fear well."

He nodded and looked away again. "When Taliesen revealed to me that Rinna had accepted a bribe from the merchant, told him of our plan, I readily agreed that she needed to pay the price and allowed Taliesen to kill her." He took a large swallow of wine and closed his eyes. "Rinna begged me not to," he said softly. "On her knees, with tears in her eyes, she told me that she loved me and had not betrayed us." He took another large swallow. "I laughed in her face and said that even if it were true, I didn't care."

"But that wasn't true."

Zevran shook his head a little. "I convinced myself it was," he said. "Taliesen cut her throat and I watched her bleed as she stared up at me. I spat on her for betraying the Crows."

Green eyes lowered as the Grey Warden absorbed this dark part of the elf's past, grieving the loss of the woman he had once loved.

"When Taliesen and I finally assassinated the merchant, we found the true source of his information. Rinna... had not betrayed us after all."

"Oh, Zevran," Myranda said softly, looking back at him. "I'm so sorry."

The elf drained his goblet, then took another swallow after Myranda refilled it. "I... wanted to tell the Crows what we had done, our mistake. Taliesen convinced me not to. He said it would be a foolish waste. So we reported that Rinna had died in the attempt." He sighed heavily. "We needn't have bothered. The Crows knew what we had done. The master who disliked me told me so to my face. He said the Crows knew... and they didn't care." He looked up at Myranda again. "And one day my turn would come."

"Why would he do that?" Myranda asked, horrified.

Zevran shrugged minutely. "To rub it in my face, perhaps. That I was nothing. That she was nothing." He looked out the windows at the quarter moon floating in the inky sky. "You once asked me why I wanted to leave the Crows," he said. "In truth, what I wanted was to die. What better way than to throw myself at the fabled Grey Wardens?" He looked back at her. "And then... this happened. And here I am."

Myranda looked at him for a few quiet moments. "Do you still want to die?" she asked softly.

"No," he said, softly and meaningfully. "What I want is to begin again. Whatever it is I sought by leaving Antiva, I think I have found it." He smiled a little. "I owe you a great deal."

The Grey Warden smiled gently at him. "I'm glad to have you with me," she said, laying her hand over his.

They looked at each other for many long, silent moments. There was a glimmer of something in the depths of his eyes that, as she puzzled over it, drew Myranda in deeper. She was intrigued by the glimpses she'd been granted into his soul, had often found herself pondering him, trying to understand him. His eyes lowered briefly, and when they returned to hers there was a dazzling flash that startled her in its intensity. She recognized then the longing in his eyes, could see his desire as if it were projected before her on a stage: an image of him pushing her down onto the tabletop and making glorious love to her until the sun rose. She knew it in an instant: he wanted her... and had wanted her since before they reached the city gates.

"Myranda," he murmured, "would you permit me to..."

"No," she interrupted, taking her hand quickly from his. She picked up her goblet with a trembling hand and drained it, disturbed by the sudden intensity she had seen in his eyes. She placed the cup firmly on the table as she stared down into the polished surface, gathering her shattered composure around her like a cloak as she took several deep, calming breaths, and looked back at him. "I'm sorry, Zevran, but no. I couldn't—I _won't_ do that to Alistair."

He sighed softly. "It is too much to ask. I understand." He smiled a little at her. "Alistair is a lucky man."

Myranda managed to smile a little at him, despite how her heart pounded in her ears and her cheeks burned with embarrassment. If he had finished the question, she would have let him kiss her... and then let him make love to her... and they both knew it.

"Well," Zevran said, standing. "Let us return to our respective beds, shall we? It is a little late to be sitting about chatting."

She nodded, gathering her dishes together. "You're right," she said, standing as well. "It's very late and both of us should be in bed."

"A marvelous bed it is, too." He followed her to the kitchen. "In fact, I could get to like this. The last time I came to Denerim, I stayed at an inn so filthy the bedbugs had fleas."

Myranda laughed softly as she deposited the dishes in the sink and left them. "So Loghain wouldn't put you up, hm?" She shook her head pityingly. "Yet another reason why being in my employ is considerably better."

"One of many reasons, to be sure."

"I'm also better company."

"And infinitely more attractive."

She shot him an uncomfortable smile.

"The truth only, my dear," he said with an easy grin.

He walked with her to the stairway before waving her on her way, begging off to check on a few things on the lower floor before he retired. She hesitated before starting the climb, and Zevran watched for a few moments before lowering his eyes. _Ai_ , what a fool he had been! To think that she...

"Zevran?"

He looked up at where she had paused on the stairs.

"I'm sorry. Don't think I'm not flattered by the idea that you... well... but I just..."

He smiled as her voice trailed off into an embarrassed silence. "I do understand," he said. "Although, a man can dream, can he not? Perhaps someday you will change your mind."

Myranda laughed softly at this gentle teasing. "Good night, Zevran."

"Good night, dear Myranda."

Good will thus restored, she turned and climbed the stairs back toward her room. Zevran watched for a few long moments before turning with a soft sigh. He was getting very tired of sleeping alone.

 

 

Myranda slipped into the room, gently closing the door and padding across the floor to the bed, trying not to wake the occupant. She slid under the covers and snuggled against him... and was pleasantly surprised when he reached out and wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her tighter against him, and kissed her softly.

"Where were you?" Alistair murmured when he pulled away several moments later. "I woke up and you were gone."

"I went downstairs for a little while."

"Everything all right?"

"Yes, love. Everything's fine."

"Good." He kissed her again, deeper this time.

Myranda moaned softly, responding to the deepening kiss and the passionate fire building between them. Though she'd never admit it to him, the look Zevran had given her had heated her blood to a near boiling point, but she had thought she would have to take care of the "problem" herself. She was all too happy to let Alistair help her with it.

She lost herself in the sensations of her body as his hands wandered over her skin, following the map he had made of her over the months of their intimacy. He knew precisely where to touch her... and when and how... to make her nearly lose her mind. It was a skill he had worked hard to perfect during the weeks she was having her Moon Blood, and had become so proficient that often she forgot her condition and would beg and plead him to take her. Once she wondered if she wouldn't reach a peak just from his teasing.

She was quickly approaching the same dilemma, and though she begged, he granted her only enough of what she wanted to keep her on the edge of madness. She nearly ripped off her shirt as he pushed the hem up to her shoulders, arching her back when he lowered his mouth to suckle her breast. "Oh, Maker," she breathed, gasping as he slid one hand down between her thighs to cup her gently. "Oh, _Maker_ ," she moaned louder.

"They'll hear you," he murmured into her ear before kissing her neck.

"Let them hear," she said, before rolling on top of him.

Alistair grinned up at her before flipping them back over. "No you don't," he teased.

"Yes," she said with a giggle, rolling over to be on top of him again. She eased him into her body before he could protest, but only barely settled into the wonderful and familiar sensation when she found herself on her back again. She met his mischievously evil grin with one of her own. "I—oh... _yes_ —I will win," she panted as he started to move inside her.

He lowered his mouth to her ear. "You can try."

 

 

Leliana sighed as she closed the door to her room. As with the previous night, she was having trouble sleeping. Myranda was probably right about Marjolaine, but her conscience was still troubling her. Perhaps a little brandy would soothe her.

As she walked by the Grey Wardens' door, she suddenly heard a loud thud. Startled, she lifted her hand to knock to see if everything was all right when she heard Myranda's voice, loud even through the heavy wood.

"Ah... oh, Andra—ah... _ah_! Oh yes... yes! Maker, _yes_! Oh, _Alistair_... yes... _yes_... _YES_!! _AHHHH_!!!"

The redhead smiled a little and lowered her hand, continuing down the hall. Oh, everything was _perfectly_ fine inside.

 

 

Morning came all too soon, and Alistair was teased away from sleep by the gentle caress of something soft across his face. He groaned, reaching up and pawing at his nose to brush the intrusion away, only to feel it pull away. He had just settled back down into the pillow when the soft tease returned, sliding over his cheek and across his mouth. He took a deep breath to sigh when the soft, delicate fragrance of roses suddenly reached him. A small smile crossed his lips and he heard Myranda laughing very softly to herself. "Is that your new weapon of choice?" he asked, not opening his eyes.

Myranda giggled a little. "Watch as I overpower our enemies with my rosy scent," she said, tapping the flower gently against his nose.

"Should I be worried about your thorn?"

"There are no thorns for you, my love," she said with a smile. "I... just wanted to thank you... for last night."

"I think I'm the one who should be thanking you."

The blonde woman blinked before she giggled again. "Not for that," she said, poking him in the ribs. She leaned over to kiss him softly then. "Though _that_ was wonderful."

He half-opened his eyes and grinned at her.

"I meant for being there to talk me down. I needed to let go of all the rage and hate that I felt for Howe. I've held them for so long... it was time to let go."

"So you're feeling better this morning?"

"Much." She rolled over onto her back and reached over to replace the rose in the crystal vase on the bedside table before turning back to him, propping herself back up on her elbow. "How's your back?"

"I should be asking you that."

"You're the one who took the impact of the fall when we rolled off the bed," she said with a giggle. "I'm used to being on my back on the ground. At least last night I had a carpet." She lifted herself up and braced her hands on either side of him. "I didn't think you'd fight that much," she said with a grin.

"I didn't know you could be so loud."

She smirked. "Neither did I. I never have been."

"I liked it," he said with a grin before he reached up to pull her toward him and kissed her softly.

Myranda moaned as she returned the kiss. "Then you'll have to make me have multiple climaxes more often, won't you?" she murmured when she pulled away.

"I'll work on it." He ran his fingertips along her neck and shoulder. "Do you think anyone heard us?"

"Oh, I'm certain they heard _me_." She giggled a little. "But then, all of Thedas probably heard me."

"I don't know," Alistair mused. "I don't think they heard you in the Anderfels."

"Then I'll have to try harder next time." She giggled when he blushed a little. "I don't think anyone heard you, however." She rolled on top of him and sat up a little. "But I did," she said with a smile. "'I love you, Myranda,'" she breathed, repeating the words he'd whispered in her ear over and over. "'I love you. More than anything in this world. I love you more than life.'"

"You forgot 'I want you' and 'I need you,'" he said with a teasing smile, sliding his hands around her waist.

"You're right, I did," she said, rocking back and forth gently. "'I need you like I need to breathe... I can't live without you. I want you... always...'" She shuddered as repeating the words and remembering how they'd been murmured into her ear, combined with the feel of his hands moving over her skin, sent shivers through her body. "Oh, _Maker_..."

Alistair sat up to trail kisses along her collarbone, his hands moving from her waist up her sides. It never ceased to amaze him how soft and smooth her skin felt... he just wanted to touch her forever. He groaned softly as she arched her back toward him, trailing his thumbs along the undersides of her breasts as he kissed along her neck. "It's probably lucky for me that you don't kill for power or status," he murmured between kisses. "I'd be at the top of the list."

"Oh, I wouldn't have to kill you, my prince," she purred teasingly, continuing to rock her hips slowly as her hands moved over his back. "I've managed to seduce you and infiltrated your bed and made it so that you can't live without me. So not only would I get the power and status, I'd have a bonus of sex, too. It's a much more agreeable alternative, don't you think?"

Alistair looked up at her and lifted an eyebrow. "Power _and_ pleasure, hm?"

She grinned at him. "I know... I'm a saucy little minx."

"You are."

"You like me that way."

He grinned before flipping her onto her back and moving on top of her. "I _love_ you that way."

An intriguing smirk crossed her lips before she pushed him back onto the bed. "Oh, no you don't," she said. "You won last night."

"You didn't complain at the time."

"I was distracted," she said, tapping him on the nose. "You've gotten _very_ good at that."

"I had an excellent tutor," he replied before leaning up to kiss her softly.

Myranda returned the kiss, slowly pulling away a short time later. "I love you," she said, moving to lay on her side again, propping herself back up on her elbow. She reached up with her free hand and, after laying his mother's amulet on his chest, traced her fingertips along the silver chain, barely touching the sensitive skin beneath. She grinned as his eyes fell closed again and he gasped softly before the breath shuddered out of him. "Something vexes you?" she teased as her fingernails grazed against his neck.

"No.... Not at all."

She smiled and leaned down to kiss him softly.

"Myranda?"

"Hmm?"

He reached up and took her hand, opening his eyes to look at her. "I'm not sure how to ask you this... and it's... probably stupid of me to ask, but...."

"But...?" she prompted when he hesitated.

He looked away nervously. "I know we've talked about this a little, but... whether they make me king or not..." he took a deep breath before meeting her eyes again. "Will you marry me? When this is over?"

Green eyes blinked in shock. "Are you serious?" she whispered.

"I know..." he said, looking away. "Stupid question since Maker knows what will happen and there may not even _be_ a 'when this is over,' but I... I just thought I'd ask."

She smiled down at him. "I love you," she said. "That has never changed from that night before we reached Lothering."

It was Alistair's turn to be surprised. "Lothering?"

She nodded. "Lothering." Her smile widened a little. "And, to answer your question, why would I say anything but yes?"

"You... you will?!"

Myranda giggled. "You sound so surprised. Did you honestly think I would say no?"

"I didn't know what you'd say."

"Well, I say yes. Every day, forever. _Beyond_ forever."

He smiled and hugged her tightly. "I love you, Myranda."

"And I love you." She smiled and whispered into his ear, "My prince."

There was something in the way she said the hated title—low and breathy—that caused his blood to surge through his veins and a shudder to course through him. And, when she said it like that, maybe it wasn't so bad. Oh, how would it sound if she called him a _king_? He groaned softly, listening to her deep, throaty laughter before feeling her lips on his skin as she trailed teasing kisses down his neck. Maker help him, she was addicting. And he needed her... needed her like he needed to breathe.

"And here I thought I had simply teased my mother when I told her I would marry a prince," she said.

"I'm not sure a bastard prince would count in her eyes."

"I don't know. I think she would have liked you." She looked at him. "And Maric would get what he wanted too."

"What do you mean?"

"Remember? I told you how he told my father that he wanted me to marry his son." She ran her hand down his chest. "And now I will."

Alistair smiled. "I'm glad it's me and not Cailan."

Myranda shook her head. "I couldn't have married Cailan. I didn't respect him as a man... only as a prince and king." She lifted her hand to trace her fingertips over his face. "I love you, my dearest Alistair," she whispered. "I owe you everything."

They came together in a soft, deep kiss that made the rest of the world vanish from their consciousness.  It was just the two of them... and a sudden, desperate ache to merge into one. Alistair reached out and pulled Myranda tightly against him, but it wasn't close enough. Even as she wrapped her arms and legs around him he wanted to feel her closer. "Myranda," he breathed between fiery kisses. "Dear Andraste..."

"I want you," she murmured. "Maker's breath, I _want_ you." She gasped and whimpered as his hand moved along her thigh, pulling her hips against his. "Take me... take me _please_."

He groaned as she rocked her hips against his. "You wanted control," he whispered. "Take it."

She grinned coyly before rolling on top of him. "Your desire is my command, my prince."

 

Over an hour later, they lay in each other's arms, basking in a mutual state of contentment.

Myranda stretched lazily beneath the tangled bedclothes, feeling like a cat that had just been thoroughly and gloriously petted. "You know, it's nice to be able to sleep in a little."

Alistair smiled. "Even if we're not sleeping."

" _Especially_ then." She giggled, then yawned, closing her eyes and snuggling against him. "Though sleep doesn't sound like a bad idea now."

He kissed her softly on the forehead. "Then get some rest, my dear."

"That sounds like you're not going to stay with me."

"I'd like to, but no."

"Aww." She pouted as he pulled away from her, watching him as he dressed.

"Unlike you, I didn't get a curb to my appetite last night."

Myranda smirked. "You should have said so at the time. I would have tried harder."

Alistair blinked and looked at her, confused by the comment until her nose wrinkled in that adorable way that meant she was laughing to herself. He chuckled softly. "Not for that."

She did giggle then. She blew him a kiss—which he pretended to catch—and wiggled her fingertips at him as he left the room before grabbing his pillow and pulling it to her as she burrowed down into the bedclothes. She held his pillow to her nose and breathed deeply the scent of her lover—her fiancé! The thought made her squeal and kick her feet with giddy, girlish glee. Married! She was going to be _married_! To _Alistair_! It didn't even matter anymore if she became queen... Alistair was going to marry her!

She blissfully dozed between short squealing fits for the better part of an hour before finally throwing back the covers and getting up to dress. She smiled as she pulled on her undershirt, which smelled deliciously of soap and sunshine. Maker bless the estate's servants. Who knew there would be a time when she considered clean clothes a luxury? By the time Alistair returned she was completely dressed and was crouched on the floor searching for her boots, one of which had mysteriously vanished.

"So, I'm guessing someone told Anora I was planning to steal her throne," he said.

She sat back on her heels. "Oh?"

He nodded. "She has a nasty glare."

Myranda held up her hands in surrender. "Don't look at me. I haven't spoken to the woman."

"Though... she did say something yesterday about wanting to, didn't she?"

She sighed. "Yes, Anora's asked to speak with me this morning."

"Do you want me to come with you?"

Myranda shook her head. "That's probably not a good idea if she's feeling frigid toward you."

"Good point."

"No, let me talk to her alone. She may be a bit more inclined to speak her mind woman-to-woman."

"You think so?"

"Alistair, I've lived in this world my entire life. Women—especially noble women—talk openly amongst themselves about things that they don't dream of discussing in front of men. Politics is one of those things." She smiled a little, secretively. "But there's something I need to do in the city first, and I do want you to come with me on that errand."

"Where are we going?"

"You'll see." She leaned over to look back under the bed. "Now where in Andraste's name..."

"Lose something?"

"One of my boots. Also my mind... my sanity... my heart... the list goes on."

Alistair looked confused. "Your heart?"

She sat up again and smiled. "I had it stolen from me by a knight... a templar, no less. Handsome, charming, sweet, though still a bit bashful at times." She smirked. "Do you know him?"

He smiled back at her. "I think I've met him. Do you want it back?"

"Oh, no. I never plan on taking it back from him. I would have given it to him anyway if he hadn't stolen it first." She wrinkled her nose in a silent giggle as she got to her feet again, wrapping her arms around him, rubbing her nose against his as he wrapped his arms around her waist. "Besides, he gave me his, so I'd call it a fair trade."

"And it will always be yours," he murmured before kissing her softly, a kiss that melted into another... and another.

"Don't make me rip off your clothes and make love to you again," Myranda murmured between heated kisses.

Alistair grinned at her. "You say that like it would be a _bad_ thing, my lady."

"The punishment _should_ fit the crime," she said, grinning back at him.

"And what is my crime?" he asked before kissing her again. "I have a right to know."

She slipped her hands up under his shirt. "Being entirely too attractive."

His grin turned wicked. "I think that you're _far_ more guilty of that crime than me."

"And not only that, I seduced a prince." She batted her eyelashes at him. "Whatever shall you do with me?" she asked innocently.

"I can think of a few things."

"Naughty."

"I learned from the best."

Myranda smiled and kissed him passionately. "I love you," she said when she broke away a few long moments later. She frowned as she looked around the room again. "But, Maker help me, I still have no idea where my other boot is."


	42. Alliance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alliances are carved in preparation for the Landsmeet.
> 
> Moneca [Cousland] belongs to agent-merlot on tumblr.  
> Kira belongs to me.

**Chapter 42: Alliance**

_An alliance with a powerful person is never safe. ~Phaedrus_

 

The two Wardens and Baby made their way through the early morning streets, greeting the few merchants that were starting to set up their stalls in the Market District. They ducked into what appeared to be an abandoned armory. Alistair looked around the large room, checking over the armor and weapons, realizing belatedly that Myranda had disappeared somewhere. He finally found her in the small back room, staring pensively at one of the two bookcases that sat against the far wall. "Myranda?"

"Did you find anything?"

"A few things. Not much that I'd consider useful."

She pursed her lips, continuing to stare at the bookcase. She looked at a small piece of paper in her hand, looking between it and the piece of furniture before reaching onto the fourth shelf and pushing one of the thicker tomes from one side to the other. She did the same thing with another book on the top shelf, standing on her toes to reach it.

"What are you doing?"

"Trying to figure out what I'm doing wrong." She consulted the paper before looking back at the shelves. "Damn it!" she swore, lashing out at the piece with a vicious kick.

A loud click echoed through the small room.

The two Grey Wardens blinked and looked at each other.

"Help me move it," Myranda said, sliding her fingers into the space between the two bookcases and pulling.

It took their combined strength, but the entire unit finally swung out to reveal the small treasury room secreted behind it.

"Is this...?"

"The Grey Wardens' vault," Myranda finished. "Riordan gave me the code so I could get in."

"Duncan told me about this place, but I've never actually been here."

She smirked at him. "We ought to find some excellent weapons in here."

"I would say so," he said, picking up a silverite sword, the hilt of which was wrapped in blue dyed leather with silver accents and had a griffon stamped on the pommel.

"Let me know if you find any daggers. Leliana is in need of a new one."

"And you?"

She looked over at him and grinned, tapping the carved pommel of the long, wavy-bladed dagger she kept on her hip. "Every good rose has her thorn," she said.

He laughed and went to examine the blade racks set into the left wall.

Myranda meanwhile picked through a pile of armor, not finding anything big or tall enough for Sten or Oghren. But then, that had probably been a bit optimistic of her. She ran her hand over some leather armor that was piled on an armor stand, looking out for something that would fit Leliana's slender build and would suit her tastes.

A medium-sized shield in a dark corner caught her eye. She walked over and picked it up, noting its incredible weight as she gazed at the beautiful image of a white rampant griffon—symbol of the Grey Wardens—standing proudly in the center. On either side of the gryphon were two gold bands, with the outer bands beyond painted a deep purple. She stared at it for several long moments before she remembered suddenly where she'd seen the crest. It had been a lifetime ago... at Ostagar... before her Joining. "Alistair," she called.

"Yes?"

"Come here." She turned to him as he approached, holding the heavy shield out to him.

Alistair stopped dead as he looked at it. "This... this shield... it's Duncan's isn't it? That's his crest..."

"You said you wanted something to remember him by," Myranda said. "I thought you might want it."

He looked at her before taking the shield from her hands, holding it as if it were made of glass. "Thank you," he breathed. "Truly, I had no idea his shield wasn't with him. This is perfect."

"You should wear it."

"But..."

"I know you picked up Rory's shield yesterday," she said with a soft smile, "and I appreciate the sentiment, but this will mean so much more to you." Her smile widened. "You should be proud to wear it and use it to defend Ferelden. Think of it as a way to honor him."

He smiled gently at her. "I don't know how else to express my gratitude. This means so much to me. I can't believe you remembered it at all...."

"Of _course_ I remembered!" she said before a smile crossed her lips. "We've had this discussion before," she teased.

"I'll treasure this. Thank you."

She watched as he carefully put his arm through the enarmes, still staring at the shield in disbelief. "I think he'd be very proud of you," she said. "Of us. I don't think he ever meant for this to be our battle alone, and I think he'd be pleased with how well we've done."

"He'd be proud of you," he said, finally lifting his eyes to her. "All I've done is follow you."

"And made me a human being," she reminded him. "And you've supported me through everything, which has meant a lot to me, and is one of the duties of a Grey Warden." A giddy smile crossed her lips. "And one of the qualities of a fine husband."

He smiled at her, lifting his free hand to her face and running his thumb gently across her cheek. "I love you," he murmured.

She leaned over and kissed him softly. "I love you, too," she said. "Now come on. Let's see what else there is around here that we can use."

They searched through the vault for a while longer, picking up a few pieces to carry back with them. They stepped out into the mid-morning sunshine, fingers intertwined, both carrying a few pieces in their free hands as they headed back toward Arl Eamon's.

Myranda's steps slowed as they passed the Gnawed Noble, her eyes falling on the door to the tavern. "Go ahead, darling," she said, squeezing his hand before releasing it reluctantly. "I'll be right behind you."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. I just want to see who's awake inside." She smiled at him. "I'll be back soon."

"All right, love." He leaned over and kissed her cheek before taking the few pieces of armor she was carrying from her. "Don't be too late."

"I won't."

He smiled at her before turning and heading back to Arl Eamon's estate.

Myranda watched him walk away for a few moments before turning to head into the tavern with Baby. Inside smelled of stale beer, hot grease, and yeast, the latter two the harbingers of breakfast. It was still early, but a few of the nobles were awake, surprisingly one in particular who was sitting with a petite elven girl: a woman with short, shaggy red hair, large round eyes, and a full, curvaceous figure that was beautifully displayed by the red dress she wore, the white lace along the low-cut neckline flattering her creamy skin. She walked over to the woman's booth, leaning against a nearby table with an easy smile. "Good morning, Moneca."

Moneca Alfstanna looked over at her, her confusion turning quickly to shock. "Myranda?" she asked, standing and staring at her. "Is that really you?"

"Unless someone's trying to steal my identity."

Baby barked.

Still the other woman stared at her, as if unwilling to believe her eyes. "Andraste's grace," she said. "I'd heard you were dead, Myri!"

"All lies." Her smile softened a little. "I promise you, Moneca, I'm no ghost."

"I..." Moneca finally gave up trying to find words and shook her head. "Maker's breath. Oh... my manners! Sit, sit!" she said, pulling the blonde toward the vacant bench seat.

"I'm surprised to see you up so early," Myranda noted as she slid into the booth, Baby laying by her feet. "As I recall, you were never a morning person."

"Kitten woke me up," the redhead replied, gesturing to the elf.

"You didn't complain at the time," the elf responded primly.

"I'm not complaining now, sweet thing," the bann said. She looked back at Myranda. "But... manners. Myranda, this is Kira, my... handmaiden." She said the title with a lewd grin, curling her fingers through the elf girl's hair. "Kira, Myranda."

"I've heard so much about you already, Lady Cousland," Kira said, bowing her head. "Mon—My lady was very upset when she heard you had died."

"Well, I appreciate that," Myranda said. The elf was more than Moneca's handmaiden, and Myranda knew it. Moneca had no boundaries sexually: male or female, human or elf, she loved them all. She had tried to bed _her_ a few times, but the blonde had always refused. She wondered idly if she should introduce her to Zevran. She looked back at her old friend when she felt the other woman take her hand.

"Myri... Myri, what happened? I thought Highever Castle had been overrun."

Myranda frowned, lowering her eyes to the table. "It was. Howe showed himself a traitor to my family, waiting until my brother had left with most of our troops before attacking." Her emerald gaze lifted to meet Moneca's honey brown. "I avenged my father's death yesterday; I killed Howe myself."

Moneca blinked in shock. "You... killed him?"

"He murdered my father, Moneca. My mother... they _slaughtered_ Oriana and Oren, and he was only a boy!"

"I'm sorry," she said softly.

Myranda sighed heavily before patting the other woman's hand. "It's done," she said. "The deaths are avenged, and I'm at peace. As for the rest, it's a long and complicated story that I wish I had time to tell you fully. But I can give you some details."

The blonde woman spent the next hour telling her old friend of Loghain's treachery and explaining how much she needed her vote in the Landsmeet. She held nothing back, knowing how valuable the truth was, especially now, especially with Moneca. The bann listened to the account in silence, sending Kira first for coffee, then for something stronger. By the end of the tale, Moneca was delicately sipping from a glass of dark red wine, while Myranda's hand was curled around the handle of an untouched tankard of ale.

"Well," Moneca said when Myranda finished speaking. "That's quite a story. To think, you're a Grey Warden."

"Do I have your support?"

"I find it hard to believe that Howe and Loghain were capturing young nobles. I believe you," she qualified when the blonde opened her mouth to protest, "I just find it hard to believe that they could keep something like that so quiet."

Myranda took a large swallow of the ale and grimaced before looking back at the other woman. "Moneca... I need to tell you about Soren."

Honey brown eyes were suddenly locked on her. "What about him?"

"When I was going through the dungeons at the Arl of Denerim's estate... I found him." She met the other woman's eyes evenly. "He'd been tortured."

Moneca's face showed no emotion, though Kira watched her with fearful concern. "Was he still alive?" the bann asked.

"Yes. He asked me to give you this." She pulled Soren's dagger from her belt and put it on the table in front of the other woman.

Moneca stared at it for a moment before picking it up, her fingers idly tracing the embossing on the pommel. "He'd never part with this," she said evenly.

"He told me to give it to you. He was badly injured and had been locked in a cell for Maker knows how long. You know how he is with closed-in spaces. My healer did what she could, but the leg was broken in three places. We left him in the master bedroom."

"You left him in the hands of Howe's men?" the bann demanded.

Myranda held up a placating hand. "You know me better than that. Trust me, I extended the same courtesy to Howe's men that he showed to mine." Her eyes narrowed. "He captured Rory and tortured him. He didn't even let him die with honor... I found him on a torture table." She blinked and looked at the other young woman when the redhead placed a hand over hers.

"I know you and Rory were close."

"You've _no_ idea."

Moneca's brows shot up before concern creased her features. "I'm sorry."

The blonde sighed heavily. "Thank you. I've... started to truly accept that he's gone, though seeing him on that table was... difficult." A small smile touched her lips. "My current lover has helped me a great deal."

"So Soren and Oswyn were the only ones? Two does not a conspiracy make."

"Plus a senior Warden. And Vaughn Urien."

Moneca's face darkened suddenly and even Kira looked fearful. "You freed that snake Vaughn?" the bann demanded. "He is a disgrace to humanity! He tried to rape me... and would have raped my Kitten had I not dragged him off!" She slammed her fist down on the table. "You should have left him down there to _rot_."

"I need his voice in the Landsmeet," Myranda said soothingly. "But don't worry; he's afraid enough of me that he won't try anything that day. And after the Landsmeet, I've arranged for him to be... taken care of."

"How?"

"Don't ask how it happened, but I have an Antivan Crow in my employ." A slow grin crossed her lips. "I could also arrange for you to thank him personally, if you wish."

"I'd have to see him first."

"Trust me, you won't be disappointed."

Moneca sighed. "So many of them _have_ been disappointing," she muttered. She looked back at the blonde then. "Besides, you know I never mix business with pleasure, Myri."

Myranda lifted an eyebrow at her. She said nothing. She didn't have to.

" _Almost_ never," the redhead qualified with an exasperated sigh.

The Grey Warden snickered before leaning forward confidentially. "Moneca, I have three words for you: sexy Antivan elf."

It was Moneca's turn to lift one eyebrow, though in interest. "Really?"

"Or how about these three: up for anything."

Both eyebrows lifted at that point. "Ooh... I'm liking the sound of this!" She sat up a little straighter and cleared her throat. "Well, I suppose it won't hurt to show a little appreciation for a job well done," she said, attempting to sound professional and business-like about it.

"And he _will_ get the job done. Zevran is nothing if not thorough."

"Zevran?"

"Zevran Arainai," Myranda said, saying the name with an Antivan lilt. "Platinum blonde, golden brown eyes, lean, muscular, sensual, and _very_ sexy."

Moneca grinned. "And this is your lover?"

Myranda laughed. "No. Though not for lack of trying on his part." She patted her friend's hand. "You'll like him. I promise."

"I'm starting to agree with you." A suggestive smile crossed the young bann's lips. "Care to join us?"

"Pass. You know I don't care to sleep with other women. Besides, I think the bed would be a little full with three."

"Or four," Moneca said, glancing at Kira, who blushed prettily.

"All the more reason," Myranda said. "Besides, I imagine I'll be rather busy with Alistair that night—and it will either be celebratory or sympathy sex." She met Moneca's curious raised eyebrow with a secretive smile.

"All right, don't explain," Moneca said with a slight pout.

"I'm not keeping it only from you. I know the rumor mill is working already and I don't want the threads to become stronger sooner than they have to."

"Alistair..." Kira said softly. "Isn't that..." She looked up then, her bright blue eyes wide.

"What is it, Kitten?" Moneca asked.

"I... I was just thinking that... I think Alistair was the name of the lost heir of King Maric."

Moneca blinked at her, then looked at Myranda, whose smile became more mischievously secretive.

"Rumors only," was all she said.

Baby woofed his doggie version of a snicker.

"Oh, fine," Moneca pouted. "Keep your secrets. I'll find out at the Landsmeet."

"As will everyone else." She looked around the room which had filled with noblemen and -women since she had sat down. "Well, if you'll excuse me, I have some other people I must meet with."

"And I should go find my brother." She looked at her friend and smiled. "Have lunch with us today. It's been too long, Myri."

"Entirely too long," Myranda agreed. "And perhaps tomorrow. As I said, I have other business—including a talk with Anora... the topic of which I can only imagine."

"Oh fine. Tomorrow then."

"Will you meet us at Arl Eamon's estate? Then you can meet Alistair."

The plans were made and the two women stood, sharing a hug.

"And let me know when you want me and some of my bowmen when you take back your teyrnir as well," Moneca added.

"I'll do just that." The blonde gave the other woman a sisterly kiss on the cheek before crossing the room with Baby to see Bann Sighard.

The older man looked up at her before standing and bowing to her. "Lady Cousland," he said.

"Bann Sighard. Good to see you."

"Oswyn told me that you rescued him yesterday. I owe you my son's life." He straightened and smiled at her. "You look so much like your father." He looked down when Baby barked, staring at the mabari in shock. "Is _this_ the pup from my Rosie's litter that imprinted on you?"

Myranda giggled. "Yes, this is my Baby."

"Maker's breath! He's huge! How long ago was that? Two years ago?"

"Five, my lord."

The bann shook his head. "Andraste's grace, I am getting old." He smiled at Myranda and waved her to a chair. "I can't thank you enough for saving Oswyn from that dungeon," he said, taking the chair across from hers. "He had been gone a few days, but he had told me he was going to visit with a friend while we were all in the city, so I wasn't truly worried. But when I saw my poor boy..." The older man's face darkened and he curled his hand into a fist. "I only wish Howe still lived, that I might tear him apart myself."

"My apologies for not saving you any," Myranda said with a vicious smile.

"It was in your right to kill him. Your father was a good man and didn't deserve his fate. I would bring troops against the rest of the Howes, but Oswyn tells me neither Nathaniel nor Thomas had any part in their father's depravity."

"I can speak for neither Nathaniel nor Thomas. I can't imagine they were ignorant of their father's scheming, but I have not heard anything from either of them. That said, I suppose we'll have to take Oswyn's word on the matter."

"I will raise my troops to help you take back Highever, my girl. It's yours by rights and I will not stand by and let Howe's men disgrace it further. But is there anything you would ask as a reward for saving Oswyn?"

"All I want is for you to speak out against Loghain. Your voice has always been respected in the Landsmeet, and if you tell about how you found Oswyn, the nobles will believe you where they may not me. After all, I am my father's daughter," she added with a slight smile.

Sighard smiled a little at her and reached out and put a hand on her shoulder. "You've grown into a fine young woman, Myranda. Your father would be very proud of you; remember that."

"Thank you."

"And I will stand behind you at the Landsmeet," the bann added, "with all the support I can muster." His eyes lit up as he suddenly remembered. "In fact, I'm taking my supper today with Bann Reginalda of the White River Bannorn. I'll speak with her about this as well."

"I would appreciate that," Myranda said. "I think her daughter poisoned her mind against me years ago and I'm not sure she would believe anything I said because of it. But if _you_ talk to her... I understand you two are quite close."

Sighard chuckled. "At one time we were closer than you know." He waved this away. "But that's in the past. In any event, I will talk to her on your behalf."

"Thank you."

Myranda made her rounds around the tavern's common room, talking to the various nobles, appealing on her father's behalf with some, on the Grey Wardens' cause with others. Allies she told of what had happened at Highever and to Eamon, those she wasn't sure about she mentioned the nobles who had been kidnapped and tortured. Most believed her; a few did not. In any event, by the time she walked out of the tavern, she felt confident that the vote would go her way. Whatever evidence she gathered after this would only strengthen her cause and would convince those who had not completely believed her.

By the time she and Baby were headed back to the estate, she felt much more confident about the actual voting process. Eamon would do much of the talking as well in the days headed up to the vote, but she felt much better about the vote itself.

On the way back, she spotted a sergeant of the city guard and decided she should let him know where Soren had disappeared to so that he wouldn't be accused of deserting. "I beg your pardon, Sergeant," she began.

The guardsman turned to her and breathed an exasperated sigh. "You here to report _another_ crime?" he asked. "I swear, we should just cordon off the entire district." He looked into her face then and paled suddenly. "Oh, uh. Can... Can I help you, Warden?" he asked, his ill temper vanishing instantly.

Myranda lifted an eyebrow. "You know who I am?"

"Your likeness was passed around to the senior guardsmen at the palace," the sergeant explained. "I must say, the sketch didn't do you much justice."

Myranda laughed softly. "Flattery will get you nowhere, ser, but I appreciate that you're not going to try to haul me off to Fort Drakon."

The sergeant relaxed visibly. "Don't worry," he said, "even if I believed the 'official story' of what happened at Ostagar, I'm no fool. If I asked my men to apprehend you, they'd all run and cry big, sobby tears in their courtesans' bosoms and leave me all alone to be skewered. Don't disturb the peace in the market and that's well enough for me."

One blonde eyebrow lifted. "Is the Market District really that bad? I don't remember it being so."

The guardsman shrugged. "The lower market isn't deemed important by the captain of the guard, even less with Arl Howe in charge. It wasn't so bad when Lieutenant Alfstanna was here, but now?" He shrugged. "So when I finally get the new men I request, I get the delightful surprise of discovering they're Lord Such-and-Such's illegitimate, untrained, moronic whelps."

"Lovely. Can't be rid of them, either."

"I tried, but lords keep sending me more of them. It's decent pay, no expectations, a uniform." He sighed. "So I have a legion of bastards to protect the market from pickpockets, stabbings, and what-not."

That explained his earlier temper.

"And Arl Howe's specially picked men are the worst of the lot."

A fierce smile crossed Myranda's lips. "The arl and I have a rich 'history,'" she said. "Tell me about his men."

The sergeant gave her a strange look, then shrugged. "With the bastards I just have to worry about dicing, the odd bit of drool, or yelling at them too loudly and hurting their poor feelings and then getting chewed out by their noble fathers. But I swear the arl's men are more criminal than the miscreants we occasionally arrest." He shook his head before muttering under his breath. "Some of them _are_ the criminals we have to arrest." He gave her a lopsided grin when she snorted with amusement. "So if your lifeblood isn't draining in the gutters as we speak, don't bother reporting it."

"Well, I can tell you that Lieutenant Alfstanna was captured and tortured by Arl Howe's men," Myranda said, "but he's alive and will probably be back on duty soon."

"Thank the Maker!" the guardsman said explosively. "Begging your pardon, but that's the best news I've had in months."

"Until he returns, however, sounds like you need some help."

Baby barked in agreement.

The sergeant stared at her. "What? You're serious? I mean, yes," he said quickly. "Yes, I could use help."

Myranda smirked. "What would you like me to do?"

He suddenly looked uncomfortable. "I got a pretty popular... er... establishment... that's crawling with mercenaries."

"A whorehouse." She couldn't help but laugh at his shocked look. "I'm a noblewoman, but I'm not blind. Or stupid."

The guard gave her a relieved look. "If I send my boys in, someone might get—Maker forbid—hurt." He added the exclamation with enough acid to eat through a steel bar. "And I'll have to explain to their noble fathers that being a guard is actually _dangerous_."

"What do you need me to do?"

"The name of the whorehouse is the Pearl."

"I don't know it... but I may know someone who does." She added this last with a knowing grin.

"It's down by the docks," the sergeant said helpfully. "Beat down any mercenaries that are out-of-line and send them a message. I said _beat down_ , not kill," he said, using a tone as if he was speaking to a small, particularly stupid child. "Let me make that really clear. Not on fire, or exploded, or Maker knows whatever type of grisly death you can dream up."

"Too bad," she said with a sarcastic sigh. "I can dream up some pretty elaborate things."

The sergeant looked at her and smiled apologetically. "Sorry... used to giving orders to my boys."

She smiled. "I understand. No offense taken."

"Just leave them breathing, and I'll be happy."

She lifted two fingers to her brow in a show of salute. "Sign me up, Sergeant."

"Thank you, Warden," he said. "Happy hunting."

"Thank you." That said, she turned her steps back toward Eamon's estate, letting herself in the front door.

She glanced into the dining room as she passed to see Leliana sitting alone, picking at the plate of food in front of her. The redhead had been more reclusive in the past two days than was her wont, and it was starting to become worrying. With a soft sigh, she turned to step into the room and walked over to the distressed redhead.

Leliana looked up at the sound of the approaching footfalls. "Oh, hello," she greeted the Grey Warden. "How have things been with you?"

"I think I've garnered enough votes in the Landsmeet. And those I knew I couldn't convince I left in the capable hands of allies who could sway them."

"That's good." She looked up at the blonde, her smile looking forced and lacking its usual sparkle. "Is there something you wanted to talk about?"

"No," Myranda said simply, sitting next to her. "I thought you looked like you wanted to talk, though."

"It's..." Leliana let her voice trail off as she looked away, "it's nothing. I'm fine. I'm just thinking."

"What about?" Myranda asked gently.

The Orlesian woman paused before speaking. "I... I can't get what happened out of my head. I'd been in Lothering for years and she still thought I was plotting against her." She shook her head. "She didn't trust me. Maybe she never did. She loved me when she could use me and control me, and now that she can't, she wants me dead." She was silent for a few moments before her head lowered. "It... it hurts to realize that I never really knew her."

The blonde frowned. "Is there anything I can do?" she asked softly.

Blue eyes lifted to green and Leliana smiled a little. "You are already helping so much by listening to me."

Myranda returned the smile.

"I knew she was ruthless, but I didn't know how far she could go." The bard looked at the table top. "She is self-serving, cruel... she uses people, then discards them, but that's how she survives in the life she leads." Her voice started the tremble a little. "W-what if she's right?" she asked suddenly. She looked up. "What if we're the same? I... I should just have stayed in the Chantry."

"But you said the Maker wanted you to leave."

"I could have been wrong about the Maker!" Leliana cried, tears welling in her eyes. "I... I know you doubt me sometimes. Maybe you're right!"

"I haven't doubted you for months," the Grey Warden woman said softly. "Your belief in the Maker keeps you going."

Leliana lowered her head. "Maybe... maybe I just tell myself He's there to console myself. To know there's someone watching out for me, to know I'm not alone."

Myranda frowned. "You're not alone, Leliana."

"But I was..." the bard whispered. "I was alone and desperate when I fled to Ferelden. I went to the only place I knew would take me." She sniffled and reached up to wipe away a stray tear. "I forgot my life as a bard while I was in the cloister. I felt safe. I didn't have to watch my back all the time." Her blue eyes caught Myranda's green again. "That's what made Marjolaine the person she is, don't you see? It ruined her; it will ruin me too." Her eyes lowered again. "It's already happened," she said. "When we killed her I... I enjoyed it. Seeing her dead gave me satisfaction."

"She did you a great injustice."

"But that is no reason to rejoice over her death! That is what she would do. I don't want that. What we're doing... what we've done—hunted men down, killed them—part of me loves it. It invigorates me and this scares me. I... I feel myself slipping."

Myranda saw the worry and the fear reflected in the crystalline blue eyes and found herself smiling slightly. She knew the feeling all too well. She reached over and placed her hand around the bard's slender wrist. "You are a good person," she said meaningfully. "You always will be."

Leliana shook her head. "How can you be so sure?"

Myranda laughed softly to herself. "Evil doesn't worry about not being good," she said.

The redhead blinked in surprise. "That... that is true." She smiled a little then. "I can always trust you to show me things from a different perspective."

"In truth I can't claim that one," the Grey Warden replied. "I had someone tell me that, not so very long ago." She looked back at Leliana. "But the point is that you are not like her. Marjolaine was twisted in her paranoia, part of which was born from the life she led. She would have thought nothing of killing you... she would not have the crisis of conscience that you're having now. And that makes you different from her."

"I... I suppose you're right." She sighed softly. "I would like to be alone, for now. I have many things to consider."

"Of course," Myranda said, standing. "Try to eat something, too," she said as she made her way toward the door. "That will help as well."

"Myranda?" Leliana forced herself to smile a little when the green eyes turned to her again. "Thank you, for listening to me."

The blonde smiled. "Of course. Anytime, Leliana." She let herself out of the dining room and climbed the stairs, taking a deep breath. She was not going to face off with an evil witch, a deranged murderer, or even a hungry dragon. But as she walked toward the room set aside for Queen Anora Theirin née Mac Tir, she was starting to feel that way.

When the queen answered her knock, she opened the door and stepped into the room, crossing her arms over her chest as she bowed her head. "Your Majesty," she said, greeting the other woman.

"Hello again, Warden," Anora said. "It is good that you came to speak with me. Please, come in." She looked at her maid. "Thank you, Erlina. You may go."

"But my queen..." the elf girl began, stopping as her lady held up her hand.

"I promise with the Grey Warden here I will be quite safe. Now go... and close the door behind you."

Erlina hesitated a moment longer before dipping into a low curtsy and letting herself out of the room.

Myranda watched her go before turning back to the other blonde, who was now on her feet. "Anora."

"Myranda." She waved her to a chair next to hers. "Come sit... we have much to discuss." She waited for the other noblewoman to join her before they both took their seats. "You know how close I was to your family," she said without preamble. "Eleanor in particular was dear to me, and what Howe did... was unforgivable. How fitting he died at your hands."

"Thank you, your Majesty."

"I will be blunt."

"Good."

Anora lifted one eyebrow before nodding slightly. "I can see that your voice will be a strong one in days to come. It is to you that Eamon listens, and with good reason." She folded her hands primly in her lap. "My father must be stopped, Myranda. I know this. But once that is done Ferelden will need a ruler. I would welcome your support for my throne."

Myranda noticed her possessive and smirked slightly. "You're proposing an alliance," she said.

"That is exactly what I am proposing," Anora agreed. "When the time comes, you support my bid in the Landsmeet to remain on the throne. You will be seen as my father's enemy, yet you will be in support of his daughter. You will be seen as supporting the interests of Ferelden as opposed to solely those of the Grey Wardens."

"And if I do this?"

"In return, I add my voice to yours. Do you see? Together we can do what alone we cannot."

Myranda frowned and stood, walking over to the fireplace and staring into the blaze within. "And what happens to Loghain if you are queen?" she asked.

Anora paused. "He is my father," she said, "as well as a great general who has served his nation well... until now." There was another pause. "If there is a way for him to live, I would prefer it."

Myranda turned from the fire, her features stony. "Justice must be done," she said softly, "don't you think?"

"I will always be my father's daughter, but even I know he must pay for his crimes. It will not make me glad, even so."

"If you are to rule, Anora, you must remember to do your duty, even if it is contrary to your personal desires. That is the difference between performer and puppet master: now you must be held responsible for your actions." She waved away the shocked, incredulous look that crossed the other blonde's face. "Come, come. Don't deny that you were manipulating Cailan to do what you deemed necessary. We're both adult, politically active and aware women."

"You would do the same if you were to put Alistair on the throne—as would I, if I were forced to marry him." A slight, haughty smile touched her lips. "He is not so different from Cailan."

The Grey Warden drew herself up to her full height. "Don't you _dare_ accuse me of such a thing," she said, her voice soft and dangerous. "My politics have _never_ been the same as yours and you know it. I would not stand by and allow others to take the fall for my actions." She narrowed her eyes. "And you will not speak of what you do not know. Alistair is _nothing_ like Cailan."

Anora blinked, though if she was in any way afraid, she did not show it. "You realize there may be a push—if the Landsmeet agrees he should become king—for me to marry him."

Myranda lifted her chin. "And _you_ realize, of course, how much stronger my claim to the throne is over yours... _especially_ considering the recent actions of your father."

The queen pursed her lips into a thin line. Myranda was right, and she knew it. "Does that affect your decision?" she asked after several moments. "Can we yet come to an arrangement?"

"Can we?"

"I have made my offer, Warden."

Myranda looked back at the fire, staring into the dancing flames for several long moments before nodding once. "I agree," she said as she looked back at the other woman. "You'll have my support in the Landsmeet."

"So we have a deal." The queen nodded once. "I trust you'll keep your end of the bargain."

Emerald eyes snapped, the only outward sign of their owner's indignation. "I gave you my word, your Majesty," she said evenly. "I'll keep it if _you_ keep _yours_."

Anora's brow lowered a little before she smiled suddenly. "You truly are your father's daughter," she said. "You have that same look about you that he did when pressing a point at the Landsmeet."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

The queen smiled a little. "I did mean it as such."

The smile returned to Myranda's lips. "I like to think that my father would be proud of me."

"I'm certain he would be." Anora frowned. "Now, I suppose, comes the task of dealing with _my_ father."

Myranda returned to her chair. "No small feat."

"No." She was quiet a few moments before shaking her head and waving a dismissive hand. "But that is something I will have to figure out on my own. I imagine you have much to do." She lifted her dark blue eyes to Myranda's. "Is there anything else you needed from me?"

"I have some questions."

"Of course," Anora said graciously. "Ask me whatever you like."

"I've been hearing rumors about something happening in the Alienage," Myranda said. "Do you know anything about it?"

"I had heard there was some unrest in the Alienage," she said, sounding as confused by it as the other blonde. "I'm not sure if my father is involved, but Howe certainly was. Although... if Howe was involved, most likely so was my father." She didn't look happy about it at all.

"What do you think will happen after the Landsmeet?"

The queen laughed a little. "Do you want me to try my luck at fortune telling?" she asked incredulously. "There was an old woman who read palms in Gwaren when I was a child. She told me that I would have ten children and be bald as a winter heath when I grew up." She shook her head. "I can't say that I put much faith in foretelling."

Myranda allowed herself a small laugh. "There's still time for those ten children."

Anora only shook her head. "What will happen depends so much on you, Myranda." Her smile twisted to a grin. "But you certainly knew that already."

"Yes. The Grey Warden." She leaned back in her chair. "Mighty and powerful, able to turn away assassins with a single look."

The queen laughed again.

"But you are right," Myranda said, standing. "I still have much to do." She raised an eyebrow at the other woman. "Do you need anything?"

Anora's eyes snapped up to her and her humor seemed to die immediately. "I... no," she said evasively. "And while I know your concern is hardly disinterested, still... thank you." She coaxed a small smile to return to her lips.

Emerald eyes narrowed at this, but the Grey Warden woman said nothing about it. "I should go," was all she said.

"Then I wish you luck, Warden."

"Thank you." She bowed to the queen, opened the door, and let herself out, closing the door behind her.

Standing outside the closed door, Myranda felt the most peculiar feeling of unease. It suddenly flooded her brain and made her stomach roll, as if she'd just made a grave mistake. Still, there was no helping it. She'd given her word. And better this way than make Alistair miserable and put him on the throne. Or—unthinkable!—arranging a marriage for him to the woman. He was _her_ fiancé! She shook her head. There was work to be done, and they didn't have much time. Sighing in resignation, she walked down the corridor toward the stairs.

Turning the corner, she saw Alistair standing in the hall contemplating a large tapestry of one of the more scenic vistas of the countryside surrounding Redcliffe.

He looked over at her. "So did she have a nasty glare for you, too?"

"No." She smirked. "But then, I'm not the one directly threatening her bid for the throne."

"Did anyone mention this wasn't my idea? I think she's a great queen. As far as I'm concerned, she's welcome to it."

"Good," Myranda said. She tilted her head toward the stairs, inviting him to walk with her. "I've agreed to support her in the Landsmeet," she said.

Alistair looked at her in surprise. "You have?"

"Yes. That was generally the topic of our discussion."

"I'm... relieved, actually."

Myranda smiled at him.

"The Landsmeet may not listen to you, and Arl Eamon would go right back into a coma if you told him... but me?" He smiled. "I'm relieved."

"You told me you didn't want it." She took his hand, interlacing their fingers. "And I won't tell the arl if you won't... not until he can't make an attempt to change my mind."

A worried look crossed Alistair's face. "Would he? Change your mind, I mean?"

"No, love. Anora is already queen. Let her keep it." She looked at him as a soft sigh of relief escaped the him. "Besides, the Grey Wardens need you."

"I wouldn't dream of leaving them," he said, squeezing her hand gently. "So I guess all we need to do is stop her father from taking the throne first, right?"

An evil smirk crossed Myranda's lips. "He can't rule if he's dead."

Alistair laughed. "I heard that!" he said. He grinned at her, lifting her hand to his lips and kissing it. "So where are we off to this time, my dear?"

"We have some investigating to do in the Alienage. Apparently there's an uproar that Loghain and Howe started there." She sighed. "Another mess to clean up, but if it'll win more friends to our side, I don't mind. Just a moment." She released his hand and walked over to the library doorway, peeking her head in. "Wynne?" she called softly, causing the mage to lift her eyes from her book. "Could I borrow you for some official business? If you're feeling up to it?"

"Certainly."

"And have you seen Zevran?"

The mage sighed softly as she stood. "No, I have not. And I count myself as fortunate for it."

"Oh, come now, Wynne, be nice. Zevran's not that bad."

"Certainly not," Zevran said, rounding a corner. "Actually I have been told I am quite good."

Wynne sighed heavily, but did not deign the comment with any further response.

"I was about to come looking for you," Myranda said, turning to the elf.

"It is one of my many talents: I know when a beautiful woman has need of me."

"Well, when you find her, you may go. Until then, I need you to help me with a little job."


	43. Another Problem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Myranda and her party clear out the rats in the Alienage.
> 
> Adrian [Tabris] is copyright agent-merlot on tumblr.  
> Avengia Tabris is copyright dagirl4ever on deviantART.

**Chapter 43: Another Problem**

 

Myranda looked at the gates to the Denerim Alienage with a frown. The alienage in Highever hadn't been the nicest place, but the stench from this one reached ten feet beyond the walls. Taking a deep breath—through her mouth, to avoid the smell—she pushed open the gate.

"Ah, the Alienage," Zevran said. A slight sneer crossed his face as he looked around. "Just like in Antiva City—packed in like crates. They're the same everywhere, aren't they?"

"I like to think the one in Highever was better than this one," Myranda said, leading the way inside.

"I've never been in an alienage," Wynne said, a concerned furrow creasing her brow. "Life must be... hard here."

"Uh, we're not going to be mobbed, right?" Alistair asked. "That's not something elves do here... mob people?"

"Only if you provoke them," Zevran replied.

"How do you do that? You know... so I know what _not_ to do?"

The assassin shrugged. "Being human is sometimes enough provocation."

Alistair sighed. "Great." He looked where Myranda had been only to find her gone. Instead she was standing a few feet behind them, having stopped to inspect a poster that had been tacked to a wall. "Myranda?" he asked, stepping back toward her.

"Look at this," she said. "Notice: Bearing arms is strictly prohibited. Elves who have swords will die upon them. By order of Bann Vaughn Urien." She ripped the poster violently off the wall before crumpling it in her fist. "He keeps them unarmed because he knows they'd kill him if he didn't, that bastard. And he would have them unarmed even with the Blight scratching at their doors."

"More reason to kill him," Zevran said in a low, dangerous voice.

"Your job after the Landsmeet." She glanced at him. "And don't forget you'll be rewarded."

"Looks like we've got company," Wynne said, nodding down the street where a good-looking young elf was striding purposefully toward them.

He was tall for an elf, though still shorter than Myranda, with olive-colored skin, short, scruffy dark brown hair, pale blue eyes, and a few freckles. He was slender, but there was a strength about him that was unquestionable. He had obviously been in a few fights in his life, as there was a small nick in his right ear near the pointed tip.

"I'm sorry," he said, "but we cannot have people simply wandering about in the Alienage. We've had enough troub—" his voice trailed off as Myranda stepped around her fellow Warden, his mouth hanging open for a second or two as he stared at her before he attempted to regain his voice. "Uh... as... as I was, um, saying... I... that is, we... ah... we were... um... just... uh..."

Myranda lifted an amused eyebrow at this dumbfounded stammering, a smile pulling at the corners of her lips as the subtle change in the look she gave him only seemed to make his stammering worse. "Wait, wait," she said, holding up a hand and cutting off the disjointed stream of words. "You mentioned some sort of trouble... what's happening here?"

"There's... there's a... um... a plague. People have been dying... disappearing." The young elf had lowered his eyes to stare at her boots, at which point his stammering had stopped.

"Plague?" Myranda said, startled. "Anora mentioned some trouble, but a plague?"

"Would a plague count as trouble?" Alistair asked. "I wouldn't think so."

"How long has the Alienage been afflicted with this plague, ser...?" Myranda let her voice trail off as she waited from the young elf's name.

"Ah... A-A-Adrian, my lady," he said, flushing to the tips of his pointed ears. "And we... it... about a month ago, we... that is, the others... started to get sick. These shem—er... humans—came and offered to help, placing most of those who were sick into quarantine." His eyes had lowered again to allow him to speak coherently. "Some of them we haven't seen since."

"Because that's not suspicious at all," Alistair said sarcastically.

"A quarantine is a common method for dealing with outbreaks of plague," Wynne said. "But a month? That's excessive for any sickness."

"Whatever it is, we should look into it," Myranda said. "Something's not right here, and if Loghain's at the bottom of it, I want to know about it."

"I should probably take you to see my friend, Shianni," Adrian said. "If you really think you may be able to help, she'll want to see you."

"Lead the way, then, if you please," Myranda said.

They followed Adrian toward the center of the Alienage and a towering tree that dominated the area. Its gold-tinged leaves were the fresh, bright green of spring and bearing dozens of small, star-shaped white flowers

"What a gorgeous tree," Wynne said, staring up at it in awe. "I wonder how old it is."

" _I_ wonder if the children get to climb it," Alistair said.

"It's the only living thing around, it seems," Myranda added. "What is it?"

"It's a vhenadahl tree," Zevran said. "Elves plant these trees to remind themselves of who they once were. And then they pee on it. Charming symbolism, really," he added with a slight laugh.

Myranda snorted. "Quite."

On the other side of this tree and in front of a large, dilapidated building stood a large crowd of elves, some of them looking terribly pale. One, a young redhead, was yelling at the shouting crowd, telling the elves to go home, that no one was going to help them and the 'magic' that was being worked could be nonsense. Between the building's door and the crowd was a single human man who looked harried and annoyed.

Adrian turned to them then. "Wait here, if you would."

Myranda nodded, her eyes narrowing slightly.

"How can you be here?" the young redhead yelled. "How many of our brothers and sisters and children have these men already taken?"

A blonde eyebrow lifted. Taken? "Zevran," she murmured.

"I am already gone," he said before slipping away from her side, mixing in with the crowd.

"I've got children at home!" a woman cried. "I can't wait out here for another day!"

"So go home!" the young redhead countered. "The best thing you can do for your children is not trust these charlatans!"

"Everyone remain calm," the human man guarding the door said. "We will help as many as we can today, so long as we can do this in an orderly fashion."

"Oh, you're 'helping' us, are you, shem?" the young elf girl asked acidly—Myranda assumed she was Shianni as Adrian was hovering at her elbow. "Like Valendrian and my uncle Cyrion and my cousin Avengia, you _helped_ them, didn't you? Helped them never to be seen again!"

The man sighed heavily with exasperation. "We've explained this to you before, girl. More whining will not persuade us to let you into the quarantine to carry plague back out to the Alienage."

"Quit trying to get us all killed, Shianni!" another elf told the vocal redhead. "Some of us have still got things to live for!"

"If this 'spell' of theirs works," she countered, "why are half the people they quarantine perfectly healthy?" She turned to her friend then. " _What_ , Adrian?" She listened to him as he spoke quickly to her, looking at the group when he pointed at them. Her brows dropped and she said something to him, eventually consenting to his pleas as she threw her hands in the air and headed toward the group. Only the tail end of her rant reached their ears.

"—because she's blonde, isn't it? Damn you, Adrian, and your fetish!"

"What's going on?" Myranda asked.

"What's wrong, shem?" she asked snidely. "Did you get bored and decide to come watch the elves die of plague?"

"Shianni," Adrian said through clenched teeth.

The redhead looked at him in annoyance, noticing the look he gave her before looking back at the human woman with narrowed eyes. "Wait..." she said after a few moments. "Soris told us about you. _You're_ the one who freed him from the dungeons."

"Yes," Myranda said with a slight smile. "How is he?"

"He'll be fine, thanks to you. We were all surprised to see him... we all thought he'd been killed."

"I'm glad he's all right." Her smile faded. "What's going on?" she repeated.

"These foreigners say they're here to help with our outbreak of plague," Shianni said, jerking her thumb toward the man standing in front of the door. "Funny thing, though, all the people they 'help' disappear."

"That's not true," a woman standing nearby who was apparently eavesdropping said, "and you _know_ it, Shianni! All three of Adrian's brothers _and_ his little sister got the Tevinter spell cast on them, and they're _fine_."

"Where's your niece, then?" the young redhead demanded, whirling on her. "And my Uncle Cyrion? And Valendrian?"

"Wait, wait," Myranda said, closing her eyes and holding up her hand. "Stop. Slow down and just tell me what's happening here. What's this about disappearances and spells and a plague?"

"I am not altogether certain there is a plague," Zevran said, reappearing at Myranda's side, ignoring Shianni's look of shock at his sudden appearance. "There are many smells here, and while death is among them, disease is not."

"But... but people have been sick!" Adrian said. "My older brothers and my sister caught it... and the Tevinters healed them. At least... they _said_ they did."

"These foreigners have taken dozens of elves into that house over the last few weeks," Shianni explained, pointing at the building behind the harried human man, "and none of them have been seen again. One of them was our hahren, Valendrian. And I don't know what we're going to do if we don't get him back."

"Hahren?" Myranda repeated.

"A leader of the Alienage," Zevran explained.

"And my grandfather," Adrian added.

"Ah." Myranda rubbed her palms together as if to warm them. "I think I'll go take a look inside," she said, a smile curling her lips.

Shianni snorted. "They won't just let you in," she said as if speaking to a particularly stupid child.

"I wasn't planning on asking." She looked at the redheaded elf. "Although... Is there another way inside?"

"Well... there is another entrance in the alley. There's no crowd watching, no mages, and only one guard." She shrugged. "You can try. Those guards mean business."

"So do I," Myranda said.

"There's... there's a-another way," Adrian stammered. He took a deep breath before facing Myranda squarely. "There's an apartment building down that alley," he told her, pointing to the appropriate one. "One of the walls is shared with the quarantine house. I'm not so sure they haven't opened it."

"Thank you, Adrian," the Grey Warden woman said. "Don't worry, I'll see if I can't get to the bottom of this."

"Allow me to accompany you."

"No, stay. We'll be back soon." She turned to skirt around the crowd of elves, waving for the others to follow.

They met no resistance as they stepped into the filthy street and headed toward the apartment complex Adrian had mentioned. The front door to the place was broken in several places and the hallways beyond were covered in filth, dust and mold. Myranda wrinkled her nose in disgust. If she became queen, her first order would be a mass cleanup of the Alienage. She glanced at Alistair, and it was obvious he was thinking the same thing.

They walked slowly through the building, their footsteps the only sounds. Inside several of the apartments were signs of obvious struggle—a broken vase that was splattered with dried blood and bits of hair next to an old bloodstain that had boot marks through it, a dining room set as if the family was just getting ready to sit down to a meal, a stuffed toy that had clearly been the beloved companion of some child on numerous adventures strangely abandoned. One of the apartments near the end of the hall had food and drink still on the table—it was fresh. There was also a note on the table, which Myranda collected and read.

"What does it say?" Alistair asked.

Myranda read: "Veras, bring seven males and four females for the next shipment, signed Caladrius." Her eyes narrowed. "Cryptic."

"Shipment of what, I wonder?" Wynne asked.

"I don't like the sound of it. I have an idea what it means; I hope I'm wrong." She crumpled the note in her fist, throwing it toward the fireplace before stepping back into the central hallway.

The door at the end of the hall lead to a small courtyard between the apartment building they had just exited, the quarantine house on their left, and another, larger building in front of them. Five guards in unfamiliar armor were loitering there. One of them looked up as the group stepped out and headed toward them.

"What's this?" he asked, glancing at Zevran quickly and dismissively. "Another shipment already? We weren't—" He stopped and peered at Myranda closely. "Wait," he said. "You're no Tevinter. Who are you supposed to be?"

"I'm here to relieve you," Myranda said, as if it were obvious. "Weren't you told?"

The guard blinked. "What? No you're not! There's nobody relieving us until midnight!"

Myranda turned to her companions and shrugged. "Well, it was worth a shot," she said.

"Quick, get them! Hurry!"

Despite the Tevinter guard's cry, he and his fellows were cut down quickly. The last of the guards had just slid off of Alistair's sword when an elven woman stepped out of the larger building. She wore a dark robe that matched her auburn hair, and her eyes flashed furiously.

"What is the meaning of this?" she demanded. "We were told that there would be no interference from the authorities!"

"Which implies that the authorities know you are up to something," Zevran said.

"Indeed," Myranda said. "And what are you up to that requires such an agreement?"

The elf woman snorted. "You simply fought your way in here to ask questions, did you?"

"No. I came to stop whatever you're up to. But if you have a big mouth, I might as well find out what's afoot."

The elf woman smirked. "You will regret this, you know," she said smugly. "Believe it or not, we have been given dispensation to do our business here." She crossed her arms over her chest, looking down at them even as she gazed up into their faces. "You Fereldans talk a great deal about how very _wrong_ slavery is, but isn't it funny how quickly the smell of gold overcomes such ideals?"

Myranda's eyes widened before they narrowed dangerously as Baby snarled. "How _dare_ you!"

"You're an elf!" Alistair added. "How can you be a part of this?"

She let out a short bark of laughter. "So I should feel kinship with these sheep? Don't be a fool. I am Tevinter first and a servant of the Minrathous Circle second; _those_ are the things that matter." Wynne and Myranda both opened their mouths to counter this point, but were cut off when the elf continued. "But enough," she said sharply with a dismissive wave of her hand. "I am here to halt your slaughter, nothing more."

It was Myranda's turn to bark with laughter. "I'd certainly like to see you try," she challenged. She didn't have to look at Alistair, she could already hear him chanting under his breath.

"Let us finish this, then," the Tevinter mage said. "I intend to see you pay for the damage you've done here."

"I wouldn't count on it." She pointed at Alistair and Zevran and twitched her fingers.

The mage's eyes narrowed. She started to chant something, but one of Alistair's templar abilities quelled her magic and one of Zevran's wicked blades took her life.

"Nothing personal," the assassin said to her as her life's blood drained away. "I simply consider myself an elf first, and a Crow second, and those are the things that matter."

"That does it," Myranda said, already heading toward the larger building the elf woman had come from, pulling her bow from her shoulder. "I thought this was what the note meant."

She led the way into the larger building, clearing out the guards in the anteroom before kicking in the door to a much larger reception room. The doors from the anteroom opened to a sort of balcony, faced by a banister that was just above waist-height on her. The greater part of the room was down a half-flight of stairs, and was lined with cages that held countless elves. Standing in the middle of the floor were eight men, all of whom looked up at their entrance. While seven appeared to be simple guards, the eighth man wore the vestments of a merchant—and given the richness of the material, he was a wealthy one. It was this last that took a few steps toward them as they approached the rail, though he made no move toward either set of stairs at the fringes of the room.

"I am Caladrius," he said politely, by way of introduction. "And you, I assume, must be the Grey Warden I've heard so much about."

"Get to the point," Myranda ordered. "What do you want?"

Caladrius looked unperturbed. "What I want is for my business here to be concluded smoothly. If that requires that you and I come to some terms, then so be it."

She looked disgusted. "You honestly think you can bribe me?" she asked incredulously.

"I have heard that you are trying to erode Loghain's support. It must be a difficult task, yes? Like washing away a mountain." He smiled a little, in a way that made Myranda's skin crawl. "Perhaps you could use some help."

"Oh, _this_ should be good," Myranda said, leaning one elbow on the rail.

"Sarcasm is beneath us _both_ , my dear Warden."

She snorted, but made no other reply.

"Truth be told, there was always a limit to how long we were going to be able to operate here. We've paid for many of Loghain's troops, but once the Landsmeet is done, we become… inconvenient."

"Perhaps the understatement of the Age."

"So here is my offer: one hundred sovereigns from you for a letter with the seal of the Teyrn of Gwaren upon it, implicating him in all of this." He pulled a folded piece of parchment from an inner pocket and held it up. There was a seal at the bottom, but whose it was couldn't be determined at a distance. "Then we leave a few days earlier than planned, with our profits and remaining slaves, unharmed."

Bribery: reduced to a business transaction with no hint of remorse.

"So... do we have a deal?" The slave trader waved the folded letter enticingly. "Even you must admit it's much better than resorting to _barbarism_ , yes?"

"I feel dirty," Alistair murmured. "We're not considering this, are we?"

Zevran spoke then, his voice cold. "I suggest you look these elves in the eyes before you agree to have them hauled off to slavery, my friend." The last word dripped acidic contempt.

Myranda held up her hand to halt any further comments. She turned then to the two men, looking over her shoulder at them in mild reproach. She watched as they took her meaning, Alistair's face relaxing and a slow, vicious smile creeping up Zevran's lips. She grinned back at him and stood up, placing an arrow to her bowstring and quickly firing.

The arrow flew through the air and into the slave trader's palm, cleaving through it and stopping when his hand was impaled halfway down the shaft. The letter tumbled from his fingers to the floor. Time shuddered, then moved forward again.

"I take this to mean you decline?" Caladrius asked calmly.

"I have a counter offer," Myranda said. "I kill you and take everything for free."

"Ah... a comedian." The slave trader sighed, managing to hold the shaft of the arrow between his fingers and breaking it below the fletching before pulling it the rest of the way through his hand and tossing the two pieces away. He closed his fist for a moment before flexing his hand, the hole in it completely healed.

"Mage," Myranda whispered to her companions as Baby growled deep in his throat.

"It looks as if we shall have to settle this the hard way, then." He bent and retrieved the letter where it had fallen to the floor before replacing it in an inner pocket. "My apologies."

A blast of magic followed his false apology, and would have hit Myranda directly in the chest had she not ducked. Instead it hit the wall behind her, a hole the size of Alistair's shield appearing there.

"Take Caladrius," Myranda told Alistair. "We'll take the others. Go!"

While the seven soldiers went down easily, Caladrius proved to be more of a challenge, but eventually he went down.

"Enough!" he cried. "Enough!" He coughed wetly. "It... seems your reputation… is an accurate one."

"Funny, though, how no one tends to believe it until they're about to die," Myranda said.

"Nonetheless, I surrender."

She let out a short bark of a laugh. "Surrender? I don't think so." She lifted her sword, which she had drawn in favor of her bow.

"Wait!" the Tevinter cried, throwing his hands over his head. "Hear me out, dear lady!" He looked up at her. "Were... I... to use the life force of the remaining slaves here, I could... augment your physical health a great deal!"

Myranda felt a wave of disgust roil her stomach, making her want to vomit.

"Allow me to leave this place alive, and I would be more than _happy_ to do this little service for you."

"'Little service'?" Wynne repeated in horror. "He is talking of blood magic!" She looked at Myranda. "Surely you would not consider such a thing?"

"No," Myranda said, her voice dangerously soft. "I wouldn't."

Wynne allowed herself to smile a little. "Most wise."

"Then, um... I don't suppose you would consider just... letting me go?"

"No, I don't suppose I would."

Caladrius chuckled suddenly, softly and deep in his throat. "Ah. Well... that _is_ a shame, isn't it?"

"You sick bastard," Myranda said. "Death is more than—"

She was suddenly hurled backwards onto the floor, sliding halfway across the room.

"Myranda!" Alistair cried, taking a step toward her.

"Get him!" she shouted, getting to her feet slowly. "I'm fine; go!" She pointed toward the mage, and Alistair only just lifted his shield before the blast hit him, knocking him back nearly to where Myranda lay. Wynne was next to them in the next moment, scanning them for injuries.

Caladrius grinned maliciously at them, raising his staff to cast some spell when a sudden look of shock crossed his face. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but the point of a long, slender dagger suddenly protruded from his throat, as if literally cutting off the words. The dagger point withdrew almost as quickly as it had appeared and blood sprayed from the wound as the blood mage fell to the floor. Zevran stood behind him, staring down at the slave trader in disgust before looking up at the three humans.

Myranda let a small smile cross her lips as she stood, inclining her head slightly, acknowledging the appropriateness of his taking of the final kill. She looked down at the vile man then, the smirk fading. "Blood mage," she noted. "Do we need to cut off his head to make sure he doesn't come back to life or something?"

"I doubt he will be returning from whatever pit the Maker decides to send him to," Zevran said. He looked at the dagger in his left hand, the blood on the blade foaming and sizzling slightly. "I shall have to remember to make more of this poison, however."

"Ah, ha."

"He mentioned a letter earlier," Alistair noted, "that said that Loghain was involved in all this. Do you think that was a bluff?"

"One way to find out." Myranda rifled through the slave trader's pockets, finally pulling out a few scraps of parchment. She flipped through them before suddenly a cruel smile curled her lips. This last page authorized the removal of elves from the Denerim alienage… and they bore the official seal of Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir.

"That's it?" Alistair asked.

"This is our proof," she agreed, folding the parchment again and tucking it securely into her quiver. She looked around then. "Now to get these people out of here," she said as she pulled a ring of keys from another of the mage's pockets.

"Who are you?" one of the older elves, sitting painfully against the bars of one of the cells, challenged her. "You don't look like a Tevinter. Not that it means much."

Myranda walked over to the cage that held him, saying nothing as she fitted the key into the lock, turned it, and opened the door.

The elf continued to eye her suspiciously. "Are you one of them? What happens to us now?"

She tossed the key to Zevran. "Free the others," she said before turning back to the older elf. "Are you Valendrian?" she asked.

"How do you know my name, shem?"

"Valendrian!" a young elf woman kneeling next to him with golden brown hair and an intricate tattoo on her forehead admonished. "This woman just saved us!"

"It's all right," Myranda said, "he has a right to be suspicious." She looked back at the old man. "Shianni was looking for you."

Valendrian's eyes widened in obvious surprise. "Shianni... did _she_ send you here?" He smiled when Myranda nodded. "Praise the Maker!"

"Can you stand?" she asked, reaching down to help him up.

"I can... thank you." When he was on his feet he stepped out of the cage and bowed slightly to her. "We will not trespass long on your good graces," he said. He looked around at the other freed elves, the last of which were just crossing the room to join him. "Come, everyone, let's go home."

 

 

The crowd had partly dispersed while Myranda and her party were inside facing the Tevinters, but they reappeared as their missing kin poured out of the so-called quarantine house. Myranda was aiding an older elf man while Alistair was carrying the young woman who had admonished her hahren, her blue eyes wide and her pale cheeks colored pink with a blush. Shianni ran over to the old man Myranda was helping, hugging him tightly and identifying him as her uncle Cyrion. After asking the old man no less than four times if he was all right, the young redhead looked up at Myranda.

"I'm sorry if I was rude to you before," she said, looking slightly embarrassed.  "Andraste's _ass_ , you'd think I'd learn some social graces."

The blonde laughed softly. "Quite all right. I've been known to forget my own social graces when my family was in danger."

Shianni smiled, purely and warmly. "Anyway, what I mean by all this is... thank you."

The Grey Warden returned the smile. "You're quite welcome, Miss Shianni. I'm glad I could help." She held out her hand, watching as the young elven woman stared at her in shock for a moment before taking it.

"Avengia!" Adrian's voice called out as he worked his way through the crowd. "Are you all right?"

The young woman in Alistair's arms blushed even more, which Myranda hadn't thought possible. "Yes," she said softly as she was placed gently back on her feet. "Yes, I... I-I'm all right." She stood uneasily, favoring her right foot until the elven young man wrapped her arm around his shoulders to help her hobble to a nearby house.

Myranda stood with her fellows, watching the elves greet their family members and stare at them in shocked horror as they learned what had been happening behind the closed doors. "I think our work here is done," she said. "Let's go."

"My lady," Adrian called.

Myranda turned back to the elven young man, who had deposited the injured girl with an older woman and trotted up to her.

"Allow me this, at least." He took her hand in his and, bowing deeply, kissed her fingers. "Thank you," he said as he stood, his ice blue eyes shining, "for saving my grandfather and our elders."

She smiled at the gallant display. "You are most welcome, good ser. Take care of them... and never forget how precious they are." She leaned over and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek before turning and leading her party out of the Alienage.


	44. A Gathering of Giants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Landsmeet is held and the Throne of Ferelden is decided.
> 
> Moneca belongs to agent-merlot on tumblr.

**Chapter 44: A Gathering of Giants**

_"Sweet mercy is nobility's true badge." ~Tamora, Titus Andronicus_

 

The debates in the Landsmeet started two days later. On the advice of Arl Eamon, Myranda and Alistair did not attend. Instead, Myranda prepared to do the small job the sergeant had given her, enlisting Oghren, Morrigan, and Zevran to help. The dwarf could use the exercise, the witch wanted to see the city, and the elf, Myranda thought, would be amused at the location. Alistair offered to go along as well—after trying to keep her in bed for the second day in a row, which he almost succeeded in doing—but finally agreed to stay behind, spending the day with Morrigan not being his idea of a good time.

The job had gone smoothly enough, and it came as no surprise to Myranda that they had run across a woman in the brothel who knew Zevran. The assassin had introduced her as "Queen of the Eastern Seas and the sharpest blade in Llomerryn," a Rivaini pirate queen named Isabela. The woman had run her dark eyes over Myranda once and immediately offered to teach her two sets of skills—one for the battlefield, the other for the bedroom. And while Myranda had appreciated the offer of the first, she declined the second—even when Isabela tried to sweeten the deal by offering to let Zevran join them. They left fifteen minutes later, Myranda having gained a new skill set and, surprisingly, she had Zevran in tow, though she had told the elf he could stay if he wished.

On the street, however, the mercenaries that she had evicted from the whorehouse had returned for vengeance—and they had brought backup. Fortunately, a patrol headed by the sergeant from the market that Myranda had spoken to two days earlier happened to be in the neighborhood, and, with their help, the battle went quickly and well. This time, punches were not pulled and when it was over, there were a half dozen dead mercenaries lying in the gutter. Myranda and her group had done almost all of the damage, though the sergeant had held his own.

"And people actually _voluntarily_ attack you?" he had asked after the battle, staring at the dead mercenaries littering the ground. "Are they just _stupid_?" This had earned a laugh from the Grey Warden woman.

On reaching the main square of the market, Myranda dismissed the party, giving a small pouch of coins to both Oghren and Morrigan to spend at the tavern and in the market, respectively. Zevran, ever the gentleman, escorted her back to the estate.

Back in her room, she changed her clothes in favor of a silk gown of the softest green and scrubbed the blood out of her armor. Alistair was not there, but she had a feeling she knew where to find him. Leaving the leather breastplate draped across a chair by the fire, she left the room to head down the hall, knocking softly on the door that Arl Eamon had told her he had given to Riordan. The murmur of male voices inside quieted as she opened the door and peeked inside. "May I come in?" she asked.

"Ah, yes," Riordan said with a smile from his place in the bed. "Please do, Sister."

Myranda smiled and stepped into the room, closing the door and waving the room's other occupant back to his chair before addressing him. "So this is where you've been hiding."

Alistair smiled at her. "Yes, I've been here. I'm not going to run off to fight the archdemon alone any time soon."

Myranda laughed softly, walking over to stand by his chair, resting her hand on his shoulder before leaning over to give him a quick kiss on the lips.

"Alistair's been telling me about your campaign to raise the armies of Ferelden to stop the Blight," Riordan said. "It's quite a tale."

"I'm sure he's been exaggerating to make me sound better," she said, looking down at her fiancé and grinning teasingly, tapping him gently on the nose. "He likes to flatter me that way."

"Hey! I've told it the way it should be told," Alistair said, taking her hand and kissing her fingers. "I knew he'd never believe me if I tried to tell him how wonderful you really are."

Myranda smiled affectionately at him before looking back at the senior Warden, who was looking somewhat amused by their display. "How are you feeling?"

"Much better now that I've gotten some decent food and proper rest." He allowed a slight smile to cross his lips. "I hear Howe's death has brought no small amount of cheer to the city."

"I killed him for myself," Myranda said. "That it fits into the grand scheme of winning Denerim to our side is merely coincidental." She squeezed Alistair's shoulder gently. "I'm glad to have everyone's support, however."

The three Wardens chatted the rest of the afternoon, about the Grey Warden order, about Duncan, about what needed to be done though there were only three of them. A massive Joining was out of the question—the process was dangerous, and even if they managed to raise a hundred recruits, perhaps only twenty would survive.

"So what are your plans now?" Myranda finally asked from her perch on the end of the bed.

"When I'm well enough, I'm going to continue my journey toward Ostagar," Riordan said. "Hopefully, I will be able to trace the heart of the Blight and where the archdemon itself abides." He frowned. "If we want to defeat this archdemon, we need to know where it is and how soon it might strike."

The blonde woman's eyebrows lifted in surprise. "You're going alone? Shouldn't we go with you?"

"If there were more of us, I would agree. But as it is, I don't think we can deprive all the armies you've gathered of a commander." He added this last with a slight smile.

"They have agreed to fight for the Grey Wardens. Not just me."

"Men don't just rally around causes, lass. They need leaders. Soldiers will follow a great leader after loyalty and belief in a cause have gone."

She smiled a little, looking over at Alistair when he took her hand. "Thank you." The words were for Riordan, though her eyes remained on her betrothed. Her nose wrinkled in a silent giggle. "Though I wonder if some of them aren't just following me looking for guidance in my swaying hips."

Riordan laughed at the intense blush that crossed the younger man's face.

 

Later that night, Myranda stood in the estate's receiving room, staring into the fire. Eamon had informed them that the vote would be the next day—their presence would be required.

She saw a shadow pass by the doorway and glanced over, confirming the presence. "Zevran."

"My dear Myranda," the elf said with a slight smile, stepping inside to join her at the fireplace. "I understand the Landsmeet is going fairly smoothly. The vote shall be tomorrow, yes?"

She nodded. "Eamon is nothing if not popular within the nobility, and several of the banns I talked to are outraged at what was allowed to happen to my family. So I'm not worried." She gave him a pointed look. "About the vote."

Zevran smiled knowingly. "You are worried about what Loghain may do."

"I knew you'd understand." She paused, considering her request before deciding to ask. "I'd... like for you to be there. If things start to turn violent..."

"Rest assured, I have no reservations about murdering my former employer."

Myranda smiled. "Thank you, Zevran."

"You do, of course, realize the irony in my being there."

"Of course. I was hoping you'd agree so I could see the look on Loghain's face." A ruthless smile crossed her lips. "It should prove a memorable occasion."

 

 

In the morning before dawn, after a mostly sleepless night, Myranda and Alistair rose and readied themselves. Armor was shined or brushed, boots were polished, swords and daggers were sharpened. Alistair questioned if the latter would be allowed in the chamber, though he couldn't argue with Myranda when she asked if he really wanted to walk in to the meeting unarmed. Even Baby, who had been given a bath the previous evening, was brushed so that he looked presentable.

Much to Myranda's surprise, most of their companions were awake when they descended the stairs an hour later. Leliana and Oghren offered to go along; Myranda refused them both for different reasons. And while Oghren grumbled about how she was missing out on having his "political genius" there, Leliana simply gave her a hug and wished her luck. Sten wished her victory and Morrigan failed to see the point of the errand, and told Myranda so, though she expected her sister would not lose. Zevran would accompany them, and Wynne would not be convinced to stay behind, reminding the younger woman that she may need a steady voice of reason—a logic that Myranda could not fault. When Eamon descended, Myranda threaded her arm through Alistair's and the group set off for the palace.

The nobles of the Landsmeet turned to them when they walked in, and the room exploded in whispers as Myranda and Alistair entered. But only Moneca approached them, giving Myranda a hug. Her eyes swept appreciatively over Alistair before she smirked at the blonde. The Grey Warden woman introduced Moneca, and she would have introduced the bann to her evening's "appointment," only to find the elf had vanished somewhere.

"How has the debate gone?"

Moneca rolled her eyes. "You know how these things go. There's no telling, though I think you being here will help." Light brown eyes met emerald green. "Some of the banns have doubted you actually survived, either the attack or the battle at Ostagar."

Myranda smirked. "Surprise." The smile faded. "And Loghain?"

The redhead shrugged. "No sign of him."

"Lady Cousland?" Eamon called.

The blonde sighed. "Well, let's get this over with."

 

 

"My lords and ladies of the Landsmeet," Eamon said, finishing up a long speech, "Teyrn Loghain would have us give up our freedoms, our traditions, out of fear! _He_ placed us on this path, yet we should place our destiny in his hands? Must we sacrifice everything good about our nation to save it?"

There was a general cry of approval, as well a smattering of applause. However, another set of hands, clapping slowly and sarcastically, sounded louder than the others. The room went quiet and all eyes turned to the owner, who was striding slowly into the room: Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir.

"A fine performance, Eamon," Loghain said, stepping to the middle of the room. "But no one here is taken in by it." He glanced dismissively at Alistair. "You would attempt to put a puppet on the throne and every soul here knows it." His eyes narrowed. "The better question is, 'Who will pull the strings?' Ah!" he said in acidic triumph as he looked at Myranda, waving toward her. "But here we have the puppeteer!"

Myranda stepped forward, pushing Eamon gently aside as he started to move in front of her. She was the daughter of the teyrn of Highever, and she was not afraid.

"Tell us, Warden: How will the Orlesians take our nation from us? Will they deign to send their troops, or simply issue their commands through this would-be prince?" He waved dismissively at Alistair. "What did they offer you? How much is the price of Fereldan honor now?"

"I wouldn't know. Perhaps you could tell us—or do you need a value as you have lost yours and need to buy it back?" She scoffed in the audible silence that surrounded this subtle insult. "The Blight is the threat here, Loghain, not Orlais."

"There are enough refugees in my bannorn now to make that abundantly clear," Moneca said.

"The south is fallen, Loghain!" Bann Wulff of the Western Hills Bannorn added. "Will you let darkspawn take the whole country for fear of _Orlais_?"

"The Blight is indeed real, Wulff," Loghain admitted. "But do we need _Grey Wardens_ to fight it?" He looked around at the other nobles. "They claim that they alone can end the Blight, yet they failed spectacularly against the darkspawn at Ostagar, and they ask to bring with them four legions of chevaliers. And once we open our borders to the chevaliers," he went on in the discontented murmur that followed, "can we really expect them to simply return from whence they came?"

"I am not the one who betrayed Ferelden!" Myranda said. "And you will not accuse me of such a thing after your _disgraceful_ actions on the battlefield."

"Some of us are curious, Loghain, about precisely what happened at Ostagar," Bryland of South Reach said.

"So one of Cailan's killers would dare speak of betrayal?" Loghain stepped over to Myranda, expecting to tower over her though she was only a few inches shorter than he. He was, however, obviously incredibly mindful of the mabari snarling at her side. "You led our king to his death with your grandiose tales of griffons flying into battle."

"And yet _you_ were the one who fled the battle and left him to die," she replied.

" _Do_ continue," said the oily voice of an older man Myranda recognized as Bann Ceorlic. "The Landsmeet hungers to hear the tactical analysis of Ostagar from a spoiled child."

Myranda looked at him coolly. "As you have _no_ knowledge of the subject yourself, Ceorlic, I doubt very much you would follow the conversation." She spoke over him as he started to bluster a response. "I saw no men of the Southern Bannorn at Ostagar. Shocking, as you have always been known to _cower_ under the boot of the teyrn of Gwaren. Or were you and your men heading the pack as you fled from the field?"

"You goaded Cailan into making that charge!" Loghain said. "He _believed_ the tales, Warden! He thought that your handful of men would turn the tide for him, strategy and consequences be hanged!"

"As you recall," she said, "I 'goaded' him to do nothing. I insisted on being in the battle—by his side, as you _should_ have been. Do you remember _that_ tidbit?" She lifted one eyebrow. "Or shall we add senility to your list of faults?"

Loghain turned away from her in disgust. "What would you have me do?" he asked. "Cailan's was not the only life in my hands. Should I have sacrificed the entire army for his _mistake_?" He turned back to her, the hatred in his eyes burning like the sun. "Do not imagine you can shame me with Cailan's death. He was Maric's son. My _king_. No one regrets his loss more than I do."

"As much as you regret selling elves into slavery?" Myranda asked clearly, pleased with the ripple of shock that coursed through the room.

"What do you mean, Lady Cousland?" Bann Sighard demanded. "There is no slavery in Ferelden!"

Myranda pulled a folded sheet of paper from her leathers and held it up, allowing it to unfold to reveal the seal at the bottom. "I have in my hands, lords and ladies of Ferelden, a document bearing Loghain's seal that authorizes the kidnapping of dozens of elves from the Alienage to the Tevinter magisters."

"Selling elves?!" Moneca repeated incredulously. She leaned on the railing of the balcony on which she stood, glaring down at the self-proclaimed regent. "Explain this, Loghain!"

Loghain looked up at her coolly. "There is no saving the Alienage, Bann Alfstanna. Damage from the riots has yet to be repaired. There are bodies still rotting in their homes. It is not a place I would send my worst enemy. There is no chance of holding it if the Blight comes here."

"And this justifies selling them into _slavery_?" Moneca fumed. "And why, pray tell, has the damage 'yet to be repaired' in the months you have been regent? Why haven't you seen to it that the dead have been taken away and their bodies sent back to the Maker? Is it because of your _racism_ toward a people who have never wronged you? They are _people_ , and deserve no less respect than you or I or any of us assembled!" She pointed furiously at him. "How _dare_ you condemn them to a fate worse than death on your _claim_ that the _sewer_ that you cram them into cannot be held! If it truly cannot be held, then evacuate them as you have the humans! They deserve no less! Their lives are no less precious than your own, and they have the right to be treated as they should be!"

"The busty redhead," Zevran murmured to Myranda as she stepped back from the middle of the floor, allowing the conversation to continue around them, "she is a passionate one, isn't she?"

The Grey Warden nodded minutely before bowing her head toward him and murmuring her reply. "You know your 'appointment' for after your mission tonight?" She pointed at Moneca. "That's her. And I believe her handmaid—a pretty little elf, might I add—will also be joining you."

She had his complete attention now.

"I told her you were up for anything." She looked at him. "So is she."

Zevran grinned wickedly at her. "You have _excellent_ taste, my dear Myranda."

"So I've been told." She turned back to Loghain then and lifted her voice to be heard around the room. "What say you, Loghain? What have you to say for yourself in the face of this heinous offense against the elves of Denerim?"

Loghain sneered at her. "Despite what you may think, Warden, I have done my duty. Whatever my regrets may be for the elves, I have done what was needed for the good of Ferelden."

"And this includes allowing Rendon Howe to imprison and torture innocents?"

"It's true!" Moneca cut in. "All of you know of my brother Soren: a good and fine man, respected by his fellows and a damned good city guard. My brother had been kidnapped and left in a prison cell no bigger than a mabari's kennel! His leg had been broken in three places, and he was left to die of the injuries or to go mad with the cramped quarters! Howe captured and tortured one of the Denerim City Guard and—"

"And here starts another rant from a _madwoman_ ," Ceorlic sneered, cutting the redhead off. "Are we of the Landsmeet to believe the words of a lunatic and this spoiled brat?" he waved a dismissive hand at Moneca and Myranda, respectively.

"Lady Cousland speaks truly!" Bann Sighard said. "My son was taken under cover of night. The things done to him... some of them are beyond any healer's skill."

"Howe was responsible for himself," Loghain said. "He will answer to the Maker for any wrongs committed in this life. As must we all."

"Nice dodge," Myranda said, putting a hand on Baby's head when he barked.

"All of us have crimes for which we will have to answer." The teyrn leveled a glare at the blonde young woman. "But you know that," he said. Though his voice was soft, it carried through the silent room. "You were the one who _murdered_ him."

She lifted her chin. She didn't have to justify her actions to him. And she knew that had she been her father, this would never have come up. But she was unfortunate enough to be born after the rebellion, and as such everything she did was questionable as far as he was concerned.

"Whatever Howe may have done," Loghain went on, "he should have been brought before the seneschal. There is no justice in _butchering_ a man in his home."

"Then you agree that my father had no justice, either," Myranda said. "Howe stole into Highever Castle under cover of darkness and _murdered_ my father, Teyrn Bryce Cousland. As the sole surviving Cousland, I had blood rights. A revenge killing is not murder. You know that law as well as I—it came from _your_ pen." She pointed at him. " _You_ wrote that law to save your friend, Maric, after the revenge killings he committed in the name of his mother, the Rebel Queen." She waved her hand dismissively. "I am no little girl—do not think you can intimidate me or shame me with Howe's death. He was my father's murderer. And no one regrets his death less than I." She threw the last part back at him, defying him with it. She wanted to smile at the way his eyes narrowed, but spoke over him as he started to respond. "And if you have such distaste for killing a man in his own home, then why did you send a blood mage to poison Arl Eamon?"

Loghain's lip curled in a sneer. "I assure you, _if_ I were going to send someone, it would be my own soldiers. I would not trust to the discretion of an apostate."

"Indeed?" a Chantry priestess asked. "The templars I know tell a very different tale. They say you snatched a blood mage from the Chantry's justice." She lifted an eyebrow. "Coincidence?"

"Do not think the Chantry will overlook this, Teyrn Loghain," the Revered Mother said sternly. "Interference in a templar's sacred duties is an offense against the Maker."

The teyrn gave the two priests a sour look. "Whatever I have done, I will answer for later. But enough of this," he said with a dismissive wave. "I have a question for you, _Lady_ Cousland." He sneered the title. "What have you done with my daughter?"

The question startled a laugh out of the Grey Warden woman. "What have I done?" she repeated. "I've protected her from _you_."

He pointed at her. "You took my daughter—our queen—by force, killing her guards in the process. What arts have you employed to keep her?" he demanded. "Does she even still live? Or have you murdered her to heighten your own bid to the throne as the _whore_ of this royal bastard?"

Myranda would have drawn her sword against this insult but for the voice that suddenly rang through the hall.

"I believe I can speak for myself."

Every eye in the room turned to the entry, where Anora stood, straight and tall, in her state robe. All that was missing was the crown she usually wore on her blonde head.

"Lords and ladies of Ferelden," she called over the explosion of murmurs that had erupted with her entrance, "hear me. My father is no longer the man you know. This man is not the Hero of River Dane." She made her way slowly into the room. "This man turned his troops aside and refused to protect your king as he fought bravely against the darkspawn. This man seized Cailan's throne before his body was cold and locked me away so I could not reveal his treachery." She stopped beside Myranda, looking at her. "I would have already been killed," she said, "if not for this Grey Warden... if not for Lady Cousland."

Myranda nodded to her, acknowledging her words and her support.

"So the Warden's influence has poisoned even your mind, Anora?" Loghain asked, sounding disappointed. "I wanted to protect you from this."

"By allowing Rendon Howe to kidnap her?" Myranda asked incredulously. "Fellow nobles," she said, addressing the assembly. "The Blight is upon us. I ask you remember that now more than ever the Grey Wardens are needed. Without the Wardens, we are surely doomed. Stand with us, and we will end this Blight!"

Loghain looked around the room. "My lords and ladies," he said, "our land has been threatened before. It's been invaded, and lost and won times beyond counting. We Fereldans have proven that we will never truly be conquered so long as we are united. We must not let ourselves be divided now. Stand with me, and we shall defeat even the Blight itself."

Vaughan spoke almost immediately: "The Warden!" he cried. "I'm with the Warden!"

"South Reach stands with the Grey Wardens."

"Waking Sea stands with the Grey Warden!" Moneca added her voice.

Bann Sighard added: "Dragon's Peak supports the Warden!"

"The Western Hills throw their lot in with the Wardens! Maker help us!"

"I stand with the Warden!" Teagan added. "The Blight is coming; we need the Grey Wardens!"

Most of the voices that rose in the hall rose in support of the Wardens; only Bann Ceorlic spoke against them, claiming shrilly that they'd no hope of victory without Loghain.

Myranda looked around, glancing back at Alistair, who smiled a little at her in relief. She turned back to the older teyrn. "The Landsmeet is against you, Loghain," she said. "Step down gracefully."

Loghain's face darkened with rage. " _Traitors_!" he yelled. "Which of you stood against the Orlesian emperor when his troops flattened your fields and raped your wives?" He pointed furiously at Eamon. "You fought with us once, Eamon. You _cared_ about this land once. Before you got too old and _fat_ and content to even see what you risk!" He looked around the room again, pointing at the assembled nobles. " _None_ of you deserve a say in what happens here! None of you have spilled blood for this land the way I have. How _dare_ you judge me!"

"So you will go against the will of the Landsmeet?" Myranda asked. "Will you dissolve us and rule as dictator as the Orlesian emperor once did?" She looked around as Loghain's men closed in slightly. "Call off your men and we'll settle this honorably," she said. "Your quarrel is with me and mine. There is no need for undue violence."

"Then let us end this," he said with a sudden calm, waving at the men, who backed away again. "I suppose we both knew it would come to this."

She nodded once.

"A man is made by the quality of his enemies. Maric told me that once." He looked at her a moment. "I wonder if it's more a compliment to you or me." When she made no reply to this goad he waved a hand. "Enough. Let the Landsmeet declare the terms of the duel."

Myranda nodded again. "Bann Alfstanna," she called formally. "Will you dictate the rules?"

"It shall be fought according to tradition," Moneca said, "a test of arms in single combat until one party yields. And we who are assembled will abide by the outcome."

Loghain nodded his approval. "Will you face me yourself, Lady Cousland, or have you a champion?"

Myranda looked back at her companions. Alistair nodded at her, reaching for the hilt of his sword until she held up a hand. She answered Zevran's raised eyebrow with a small shake of her head, patting Baby when he whined up at her. "Wynne will stand as my champion," she said, turning back to Loghain.

"Then prepare your champion, and let us see an end to this."

"Myranda!" Alistair whispered. "Let me fight him."

"No. I will not risk you to the Hero of River Dane," she hissed at him. "It's not that I doubt your skill, my love. I don't trust _him_." She jerked her head toward Loghain.

"I've wanted a private word with him since Ostagar, anyway," Wynne said with what could only be described as an evil smirk.

"Let Wynne settle this," she said. "She lost friends on the field as surely as we did." She looked at her betrothed. "I beg you trust me."

Alistair looked hurt and upset, but he conceded.

Wynne smirked as she stepped to the middle of the room. Loghain looked as if he was trying to keep from laughing at Myranda's chosen champion. Minutes later, after being encased in ice and being the recipient of several magical attacks, the teyrn suddenly didn't find the choice so amusing anymore.

"Enough," Loghain called ten minutes later, lowering himself to one knee and bowing his head. "Your champion has won. I concede."

Myranda stared down at the man kneeling at her feet for several long, quiet moments. Every drop of nobility within her suddenly abhorred this man who, she knew, started as a nobody. But he was the Hero of River Dane. She knew the stories as well as anyone: her father had told them to her since she had been a babe. The hall around her was quiet, waiting for her word to settle the matter. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, gathering her good breeding and upbringing around her like a protective cloak as she straightened her spine and squared her shoulders regally. "I accept your surrender," she said.

" _What_?!" Alistair cried. "I didn't just hear you say that!" He stared at her as she looked at him over her shoulder, her eyes blank. "You're going to let him _live_?" he demanded, his anger burning like a brand. "After everything he's done?! Kill him, already!"

"Wait!"

All eyes turned again to the door, where Riordan was standing as if he had been there for some time.

"There is another option," he said, walking into the room.

"Which is?" Myranda asked.

"The teyrn is a warrior and general of renown. Let him be of use. Let him go through the Joining."

Myranda's eyebrows dropped. "No," she said firmly. "That's crazy."

"There are too few of us," Riordan said. "It's not a matter of what we _like_ ; it's a matter of what we _must do_. Our duty is to slay the archdemon." He looked between the two younger Wardens, who gave him similar incredulous looks. "We aren't judges. Kinslayers, blood mages, traitors, rebels, carta thugs, common bandits: Anyone with the skill and the mettle to take up the sword against the darkspawn is welcome among us."

"He stood against us before," Myranda said. "Why should he stand beside us now?"

"There are _three_ of us in all of Ferelden," Riordan said. "And there are... compelling reasons to have as many Wardens on hand as possible to deal with the archdemon." He gave Myranda a look that indicated that she should know what he was talking about. But she didn't, so she only glared back.

"Absolutely not!" Alistair said. "Riordan, this man abandoned our brothers and then blamed us for the deed! He hunted us down like animals. He tortured you! How can we simply forget that?"

"I will not make him a Warden," Myranda said coldly. "He does not deserve the title." She looked at Anora, meeting her eyes evenly. "And justice must be done."

Anora's eyes widened in horror. "You can't do this!" she cried. "My father may have been wrong, but he is still a hero to the people!"

"Anora," Loghain said, softly but firmly. "Hush. It's over."

"Stop treating me like a child!" she cried in the manner of stamping one foot petulantly. "This is serious!"

Her father turned to look at her with a soft, gentle smile on his face. "Daughters never grow up, Anora," he told her. "They remain six years old with pigtails and skinned knees forever."

The words struck Myranda, and she had a vivid memory of her own father staring at her with similar affection that Loghain was showing to his daughter. It broke her heart all over again, and suddenly she had a sour taste in her mouth.

Anora's blue eyes started to well with tears. "Father—" she managed before the rest of her words were choked off.

"Just make it quick, Warden," Loghain said, looking back at Myranda. He paused before amending her title. "Lady Cousland." He said it with all the respect her family name had always carried. "I can face the Maker, knowing that Ferelden is in your hands."

Myranda's will failed her. Damn him, it was his last betrayal. She looked at Alistair, a question in her eyes.

He nodded. "I will," he said. "I owe that to Duncan."

"Very well." She closed her eyes and bowed her head, listening to the soft singing of a blade leaving its scabbard and the terribly long pause before the soft whir of the blade slicing through air, followed by the soft thud of the severed head hitting the floor.

The room was silent for several long moments as the teyrn's body and head were carried reverently away.

"So it is decided," Eamon said with an air of moving on to new business after ten minutes of solemn silence. "Alistair will take his father's throne."

Alistair and Myranda looked at the arl in surprise.

"Wait, what?"

"What?"

"No!" Alistair said, slightly panicked. "When did this get decided? Nobody's decided that, have they?" He looked imploringly at Myranda, silently begging her to do something.

"He refuses the throne," Anora said, jumping into the conversation with the ferocity of a wolf on injured prey. "Everyone here has heard him. I think it's clear then, that he abdicates in favor of me."

"I hardly think you're the appropriate person to mediate this, Anora," Eamon said sternly. He looked at Myranda. "Lady Cousland, will you help us?"

She nodded. "I shall."

"Then as the arbiter of this dispute, what is your decision? Who will lead Ferelden?"

"There is no dispute, Arl Eamon," Myranda said calmly. She looked at Alistair, facing him squarely and taking his hands. "I place Ferelden in the hands of one whose claim is legitimate and right, the only one who can lead us now. One whose heart is just and pure and true and will serve this country well." She saw the panicked horror in his eyes—not to mention how Anora stiffened with hostility—and smiled a little before winking at him. "Her Majesty Queen Anora should continue to rule Ferelden."

It was the closest she'd ever seen Alistair come to fainting.

Eamon looked as if he was about to protest, but subsided at the look Myranda gave him. It was not a look from a young woman to an older man, it was a look from a higher-ranking noble daring a lower to defy her word. She was not just Myranda—she was Lady Myranda Cousland, teyrn of Highever, and she greatly outranked him. The low, warning growl of her mabari only reinforced the stupidity of contradicting her. He closed his mouth and bowed his head, conceding the point.

"Thank you, Warden," Anora said. "You were wise not to disrupt Ferelden's governance any further in a time of such crisis."

The green eyes turned to her, the look in them making it obvious that her actions were not motivated by concern for Ferelden's political stability.

"My first act as queen must be to insist on receiving Alistair's oath, before all the Landsmeet, to relinquish all claim to the throne for himself and his heirs."

"Oh, I _never_ wanted it!" Alistair said. He realized then that a certain protocol was called for, cleared his throat, and tried again. "I mean... yes. Of course. Happily, in fact."

Anora nodded and turned to the assembled nobles. "And now, lords and ladies of Ferelden. There is still a Blight to defeat and armies to gather, and I appoint this woman, Grey Warden Myranda Cousland, to lead us in both." She gestured to the other blonde. "We will not allow this land to be further threatened by the archdemon. Gather your forces and await the Warden's command."

"Thank you, your Majesty," Myranda said. "Call up your soldiers, fellow nobles, to gather with all haste at Redcliffe. On the morrow, we shall begin our struggle against the greatest threat Ferelden has ever faced."

 

 

Back at Arl Eamon's estate, the two Wardens retired to their room, begging off of the celebration of their victory in the Landsmeet. After a tense three hours in the gathering room, Myranda wanted some time to herself. She dropped into a chair by the fire, leaning her head back and breathing a deep sigh as she closed her eyes.

"Are you all right?" Alistair asked.

"Politics gives me a headache," she said. "And that was one of the worst situations I've ever been in. I almost wish we had a Proving like the dwarves... that would have been easier on my nerves."

He looked at her for a while, then turned away to stare into the fireplace. He loved her with every fiber of his being, but he couldn't help the anger that welled up inside him. How could she? How could she have even _considered_...?

Myranda opened one eye and looked at him, noticing the stubborn set of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders. And a minute's contemplation of their fire did nothing to assuage it. "What's bothering you, Alistair?"

"You were really going to let Loghain live, weren't you?"

She found herself laughing softly. "That was politics, darling. By accepting the surrender it made the Grey Wardens look honorable, rather than simply seeking revenge. But taking his life proved we value justice as well."

Alistair continued to stare at the fire as she spoke, but eventually the angry line left his face. "It's a good thing they didn't make me king," he muttered as he dropped into a chair next to hers. "I don't have a head for politics if that's the way it works."

"I know. It's complicated. It surprised me, too, if it makes you feel better."

He looked at her then. "Although... if they _had_ forced me to be king..."

She smiled gently and reached over to take his hand. "I would have stood beside you and guided you." Her grin took on a more teasing quality. "It wouldn't be the first thing I've taught you."

" _That_ was more enjoyable to learn, though."

She giggled a little, lifting their hands and kissing his fingers. "But it's one of the reasons I didn't ask you to rule Ferelden... the other, more important reason being that you didn't want it, and I would never force you to do something you didn't want to."

"Except sit on the sidelines while you walk into dangerous situations alone."

She blinked. "When did I do that?"

"In Haven. And at the Proving. I was scared to death the entire time."

Myranda laughed again. "I told you I'd be fine."

"They set two against you. That's hardly a fair fight."

"And, as you recall, I trounced them both thoroughly." She smiled at him, standing and moving to sit in his lap, loosely wrapping her arms around his neck. "You worry too much, my love."

"Of course I worry," he said, hugging her gently. "I love you, Myranda. Of course I worry about you."

"I'd expect no less of a prince."

"I'm not a prince anymore."

"You're still a prince. No longer Ferelden's, but mine alone." She kissed him softly. "My prince, my beloved, and my future husband." She smiled. "A king in my heart."

Alistair smiled, lifting his hand to run his fingers along her face. "What did I do to deserve you?"

"You were yourself: kind, witty, charming, and delightfully awkward."

"'Delightfully awkward?'" he repeated. He looked confused. "Women really go for that sort of thing?"

"Most do. A man who's shy and slightly awkward is endearing."

"Huh. Leliana said the same thing."

"When was this?"

"Before we got to the Circle tower. I was trying to ask her advice about..."

"...About how to woo me?" She smiled when he nodded. "What did she say?"

"Well I can't say the conversation started off all that well. I didn't know how to ask, so I started off by asking if she was female."

Myranda laughed softly as he blushed just remembering. "You are _adorable_ when you're flustered." She smirked at him. "Ali-bear," she added, cooing the nickname at him.

He grinned and growled playfully at her, pulling her to him as he kissed her deeply.

Myranda broke the kiss several long minutes later and shifted to straddle him in his lap before kissing him again, deeper this time. She tightened her arms around him as they kissed, moaning softly as his arm tightened around her waist, pulling her against him and making her aware of his growing excitement. "I will say," she whispered between kisses, "that it was rather exciting to think of you as a king."

"Was it?" he whispered.

She moaned, as much in answer to his question as to the feeling of his hands slipping under her shirt and up her back. "I thought it would be exciting to call out 'your Majesty' while we..." the rest of the words were cut off by another moan as the linen undergarment that cupped her breasts suddenly fell off her body to be replaced by his hands and he started to trail hot kisses down her neck. She leaned back and moaned louder as he kissed her hardened nipples through the fabric of her shirt. She whispered his name before he slid the hem of her shirt up toward her shoulders to take her right breast into his mouth, suckling hungrily. "Oh _Maker_ ," she breathed. She gasped sharply when he moaned, the vibrations sinking into her chest and pulsing through her body. "Oh my prince... my _king_..."

Alistair moaned louder. Oh, that _was_ exciting. He slid his hands down to her hips as she started to rock against him, wanting nothing more than to make love to her here in this chair... then on the floor, then against the bed post before falling onto the bed... they could order a bath and he could make love to her in the tub as well....

Myranda was working furiously on loosening the ties on his trousers after unbuckling his belt when a sudden, sharp knock sounded on the door, causing Alistair to pull away from her and her shirt to fall back down to cover her. She growled at the interruption. "What is it?" She turned as the door opened and stood slowly as the young queen entered, wary at the determined look on her face. "Your Majesty."

"May I speak with you, Warden?"

"Of course." She held out a hand to Alistair, who had started to rise to join her, dropping her eyes to his lap with a smirk before she followed the other woman out into the hall.

"So it's done," Anora said without preamble. "My father is dead."

She had said it without open judgment or hostility, but Myranda heard the undertones loudly and clearly.

"I never thought he would go so far. I never thought it would end like it did." She shook her head. "Such a waste."

"I'm sorry," Myranda said. "I wish it could have been otherwise."

"It could have been," Anora said harshly, her blue eyes hardening for a moment before she heaved a deep sigh. "But what is done is done. My father had no illusions about the consequences of his actions, and neither do I."

The other blonde nodded. "You shall do well with that attitude," she told her. "I've no doubt that you will rule Ferelden as you always have: justly and well."

Blue eyes lifted. "Thank you, Myranda," she said, and obviously meant it. "I understand Arl Eamon will be leaving soon for Redcliffe?"

"Tomorrow, he told us. With the business done here, he's anxious to get home."

"You will be joining him?"

"No... I think we have a bit of last minute business here. We'll also need to resupply before returning to Redcliffe."

The queen nodded then. "I will be heading there, myself," she said.

Myranda's brow furrowed. "I'm not sure that's a good idea. The darkspawn are increasing to the south. It may be best if you stay here."

Anora's shoulders straightened. "I am queen of Ferelden. It is my duty to see to my people and the army that gathers to save my country. I owe it to them... and to you."

The Grey Warden bowed her head slightly. "If you think that best. I've given my advice; do what you will with it. But..." her voice trailed off and the corners of her mouth lifted. "Thank you."

A slight smile crossed the young queen's face. "You have united Ferelden, Myranda. Now we face the Blight."


	45. Darkness Falls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The time has come. The archdemon has risen, and desperate times call for desperate measures.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The conversation between Alistair and Morrigan in the hallway was written by David Gaider and was meant to be in the game, but was ultimately struck.
> 
> Here's the cool part.
> 
> David Gaider actually approached the fabulous and talented Aimo to illustrate it, which resulted in an eight-page comic. If you haven't seen it yet, WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU?!?
> 
> Ahem. If you haven't seen it yet, you can find it on the BioWare blog at http://blog.bioware.com/2010/03/01/dragon-age-the-revelation-comic/. Do check it out, as I've referenced several of the poses in my writing.

**Chapter 45: Darkness Falls**

_"There is in every woman's heart a spark of heavenly fire which lies dormant in the broad daylight of prosperity, but which kindles up and beams and blazes in the dark hour of adversity." ~Washington Irving_

 

Though Eamon returned to Redcliffe the day after the vote, Myranda and her party stayed on at the estate. The reason she gave to the arl was that they had business to attend to; the true reason was that she was waiting for Zevran to return from his mission reward. When he finally returned—three days later—he had Moneca, Kira and a limping Soren in tow. The two elves and Moneca looked incredibly relaxed, if not completely rested, and Soren was looking much better. Alistair was formally introduced to the bann, who eyed him appreciatively before bluntly asking the blonde how he was treating her, much to Alistair's embarrassment. Myranda had lunch prepared for the six and invited Leliana to join them when she looked in on the party, noticing Soren's immediate interest in the bard.

The meal passed agreeably, Moneca and Zevran exchanging several looks and comments—some more blatant than others. Myranda laughed and chatted with her friends old and new, holding Alistair's hand under the table through most of the meal.

An hour later, Myranda hugged Moneca tightly, giving her a sisterly kiss on the cheek before waving goodbye as the Alfstannas and Kira headed back to their estate. "Well, Zevran?" she asked.

Zevran sighed. "Wonderful. Kira is a sweet delight, and Moneca..." he sighed again. "Now, if you will excuse me, I did not get much sleep while I was away."

"Sucked you dry, did she?"

He looked up at her. He said nothing. Just grinned.

"Never mind. Though now you know why she's known as 'the Succubus' in Waking Sea."

"Ah... that... explains a lot."

The blonde laughed softly. "I'll wake you in the morning before we leave."

"I think I'm going out to the Market for a while," Alistair said as Zevran staggered away.

"Shall I come with you?" Myranda offered.

"No... stay here," he said with a grin, taking her hand and kissing her fingers.

She smiled at him, biting back her girlish giggle.

"I'll be back in a little while."

"All right," she murmured. "Take Baby with you... I think he'd enjoy the fresh air."

Baby barked.

"All right. We'll be back in a little while."

Myranda wiggled her fingertips at them before they walked away, leaning on the door frame. "Leliana?" she said.

"Hm?"

"I like glowing." She looked over at the other woman with a dreamy smile.

The bard grinned at her. "Do you remember our discussion? After we... confronted Marjolaine?"

Myranda nodded. "Yes, of course."

"I just wanted to tell you that I thought about what you told me and... you were right. Despite what Marjolaine says, I am not like her. I know that now. I've found peace in knowing the Maker and nothing will change that."

"Well, good," Myranda said, throwing her arm around Leliana's shoulders and walking back into the house with her. "I'm glad you're feeling better. I've been worried about you."

Leliana smiled, wrapping her arm around Myranda. "I followed you to make the world a better place and as long as I keep that in mind, I will not fall. Sometimes it takes another to show us the truths we hide from ourselves."

The Grey Warden smiled. "It was my pleasure."

"I'm glad I left Lothering in your company. You have proven a true friend and I thank the Maker for you."

Myranda hugged Leliana's shoulders. "Come on," she said, "let's see if we can't find a deck of cards. I still want to see if I can out-cheat you at Wicked Grace."

 

 

The next morning the group set off back toward Redcliffe. It was a warm day, the late spring weather and the recent victory lifting everyone's spirits. Alistair and Myranda continued to keep their engagement a secret from the rest of the group, though their happiness was infectious. They giggled and teased each other and Myranda nearly danced along the road. Their days passed in joy, their nights in continuous bliss.

It wasn't until the two Wardens started to sense the darkspawn more strongly—indicating in greater numbers than any of them had yet seen—that the bubble of contentment burst. It was the first warning that something was wrong. The sensation grew ever stronger as they approached Redcliffe, and the village itself appeared to be overrun. The group stared in shock for only a second or two before rushing into the village to again liberate it, this time from darkspawn.

Fortunately, the villagers had continued to train since the debacle with the undead, and they were holding their own. Murdock directed them up to the castle, but the Grey Wardens' party stayed until the darkspawn assault slacked off. Only then did Myranda lead the group up to the castle.

Ser Perth met them at the gate, noted their blood-splattered armor and immediately requested a status report for the village, as none of his men had returned. Myranda filled him in quickly and the knight dispatched a few more men to assist the village before sending the group to the castle to report to the arl.

Myranda burst into the Great Hall, startling the war council that was underway there. Most of the faces she had expected to see in the castle—Eamon, Teagan, and Anora—but one was a surprise.

"Sister Myranda," Riordan greeted her. "It is a relief to see you unharmed. And you as well, Alistair."

"Riordan?" Myranda said, wiping her face with the towel that one of the servants brought her, putting a hand on Baby as one of the girls knelt to wipe him down as well. "What are you doing here? I thought you were in Ostagar."

"I was headed there, but found the horde was on the move."

"Are the darkspawn headed here?" Alistair asked.

The elder Warden shook his head. "The darkspawn that attacked Redcliffe were relatively few in number, I'm afraid. I assumed the horde was marching in this direction... but that is not true."

Myranda stared at him. "What?"

"So the hundreds we fought through on the way here was all for naught?" Morrigan asked. " _Marvelous_."

The Grey Warden woman held up her hand. "Where are they headed?" she asked.

"As I was about to tell the arl and her Majesty, the bulk of the horde is, in fact, heading towards Denerim. They are perhaps two days away from the capital."

An icy chill shot down Myranda's spine.

"Holy Maker," Leliana whispered. "And we just left there."

"How certain are we that this is good information?" Anora demanded.

Myranda gave her a furious look. "Doubting us like your father before you, _your Majesty_?" she asked, sneering the title as if as a reminder as to who had assured she have it.

"I am simply asking, Warden," the queen said primly.

Riordan looked over at her. "I ventured close enough to 'listen in,' as it were," he said. "I am quite certain."

"Has word been sent to Denerim?" Myranda asked.

"Word has been sent, but they need more than warning," Eamon said. "They need our armies."

"Then the army should be mustered. Word must be sent to Orzammar, the Circle, and the Brecilian Forest."

"There is, I'm afraid one other piece of news that is of even greater concern," Riordan said. "The archdemon has shown itself. The dragon is at the head of the horde."

"Maker preserve us!" Teagan said.

"Shit," Myranda swore. "And we won't be able to reach Denerim in two days."

"And the dwarves may not make it at all," Alistair said.

Oghren grunted. "No dwarf worth his stones would fall back from this fight."

"We must begin a forced march to the capital immediately, with what we have," Eamon said. "Denerim must be defended at all costs."

"I will not move against the archdemon without the full strength of Ferelden's armies," Myranda told him. "I would rather lose Denerim than risk all of Ferelden by facing the monster with less than our full strength."

Anora looked at her, stunned. "You would sacrifice..."

"Yes," Myranda interrupted, her emerald eyes boring into Anora's blue. "Without hesitation."

"Is it even possible to reach the city in time?" Alistair asked. "I mean, it's kind of pointless to talk about this if we can't get there in two days."

"Perhaps not," Riordan consented, "but what is important is that we know where the archdemon will be." He turned to Anora then. "If we do not defeat the archdemon, it will not matter if Denerim is saved or the horde defeated. And only the Grey Wardens can defeat the archdemon. That is why we must go."

"Then we march," Anora said, "and hope the army collected here gives you the chance you need." She turned to the arl. "Arl Eamon, how long before the army can set out?"

"By daybreak, your Majesty," was Eamon's immediate response.

"Then give the order."

"You will do no such thing."

Anora turned to Myranda, who had overridden her. "The longer we delay, the longer Denerim will be at the mercy of the horde!"

"I will remind you, Anora," Myranda said, "that you made _me_ commander of this army." She spoke softly; there was enough force and conviction behind her words to where she didn't have to raise her voice. "That means _I_ will give the orders, not you." Her green eyes snapped, daring Anora to defy her and go back on the word she had given in the Landsmeet chamber—her word to which Myranda had six witnesses in that room alone. "Now stand down, and shut up." Sapphire eyes flared with rage, but Myranda held the gaze evenly. She didn't care that Anora was the queen: this army was hers, and _she_ would command it. The other woman seemed to recognize this and nodded slightly, though she didn't look happy about it. Only then did Myranda turn to Eamon. "Send messengers on your fastest horses to gather the army—at least two to Orzammar and the Circle tower, more to the forest. See that they are ready to march... they should be from the messages I sent before we left for the Landsmeet. Maker help the ones who are not. Have them send birds back with status reports and have them brought to me as soon as they arrive—I want to know where they are and how many they've mustered."

"Of course, Warden," Eamon said, strangely and yet appropriately formal.

Riordan nodded in approval at this new plan. "Then if you and Alistair could meet me before you retire," he said to his sister Warden, "we have Grey Warden business to discuss."

"I will have someone show you to your rooms," Eamon said. "I suggest you all get some rest, while you can. We will need it."

"Sound advice," Myranda agreed, turning to her party—her friends. "Rest, recuperate... whatever you need. Our time is short and it may be the last proper rest any of us will see for a while."

 

 

After a sober supper, interrupted only once by a missive for Myranda—the mages were sailing for Redcliffe immediately—the blonde walked back down the hill with Baby toward the line of knights guarding the path to the village. A few darkspawn had returned, but the villagers and their own soldiers had managed to dispatch these. They pressed Myranda for news, but she told them no more than what they needed to know: that the army would be arriving soon and they would be marching for Denerim as soon as they were able.

Alistair was in the entry hall when she returned, looking like he was about to go out.

"There you are," he said. "I'd wondered where you'd gone."

"I went to check on the village. Things seem to be fine... for now."

"They've been well-trained. They'll be all right." He kissed her forehead before tucking her hand formally into his elbow. "Come on, my love. Let's go see what Riordan has to say."

Myranda nodded. "Right."

They climbed the stairs and Alistair led her to Riordan's room, knocking. He opened the door for her and bowed her inside when they were bade enter. Myranda smiled a little at this chivalrous act from him, preceding him into the room.

"You are both here," the Senior Warden said from where he stood by the fireplace. "Good. Close the door, Alistair, if you would."

"What's the matter, Riordan?" Alistair asked, pushing the door softly shut before walking over to stand by Myranda. "You seemed preoccupied at dinner."

"It's going around," the blonde woman told him.

"You are both new to the Grey Wardens," Riordan said, his face carefully neutral, "and you may not have been told how an archdemon is slain. I need to know if that is so."

The two young Wardens exchanged a look. "You mean there's more to it than just, say, chopping off its head?" Alistair asked, trying for a joke and not quite making it.

Riordan himself slumped as if in defeat, leaning against the mantle. "So it is true," he murmured. "Duncan had not yet told you. I had simply assumed...." He stood for many long moments of quiet contemplation, looking like he was trying to determine how to say something, before lifting his blue-green eyes back to them. "Tell me, have you ever wondered _why_ the Grey Wardens are needed to defeat the darkspawn?"

Another look passed between the couple. "Because of our skill and ability to sense them?" Myranda offered.

Riordan just shook his head. "Were that so, then any skilled warrior would suffice." He looked painfully at them, from one to the other, for a moment before speaking again. "The archdemon may be slain as any other darkspawn," he explained, "but should any other than a Grey Warden do the slaying, it will not be enough." He turned away from them, staring into the fire. "The essence of the beast will pass through the taint to the nearest darkspawn and will be reborn anew in that body. The dragon is thus all but immortal." He paused before turning back to them. "But if the archdemon is slain by a Grey Warden, its essence travels into the Grey Warden, instead."

Myranda's green eyes narrowed as she tried to work through what he was trying to say. "And... what happens to the Grey Warden?"

Riordan sighed softly. "A darkspawn is an empty, soulless vessel, but a Grey Warden is not. The essence of the archdemon is destroyed... and so is the Grey Warden."

Alistair and Myranda exchanged a third, quicker look. "Meaning..." Alistair said slowly, "the Grey Warden who kills the archdemon... dies?"

Riordan nodded. "Yes."

Myranda gasped, her hands covering her mouth as her eyes widened in horror.

"This is how it must be done. Without the archdemon, the Blight ends."

"Is there no other way?" Alistair asked, his mind racing at the horror of this revelation. "Must a Grey Warden die?"

"As far as we know, the transfer of the archdemon's essence is automatic. If one of us is not present when the killing blow is made, it is all for nothing." He shook his head. "There is no other way." The pained look crossed his face again. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

Alistair stared at him for a few moments before looking at Myranda. She was standing perfectly straight, her hands by her sides and her head down, eyes closed. She had said and done nothing since the truth had been revealed, and there was an eerie calm about her that made him nervous. Finally, she took a deep breath and lifted her head, and when her eyes opened again, they had lost their sparkle.

"So it's up to the three of us to kill this thing." Her tone was flat and grim, and the words had a finely honed edge to them.

Riordan nodded. "In Blights past, when the time came the eldest of the Grey Wardens would decide which amongst them would take that final blow. If possible, the final blow should be mine to make. I am the eldest, and the taint will not spare me much longer." He gave them a pointed look. "But if I fail, the deed falls on you. The Blight must be stopped now or it will destroy all of Ferelden before the rest of the Grey Wardens can assemble. Remember that."

"Understood," Myranda said.

"But enough," the elder Warden said, more gently. "There will be much to do tomorrow and little enough time to rest before it. I will let you return to your room... I imagine the news will need some time to settle in."

"That's one way of putting it," Alistair said. He sighed then. "We will see you once the army is ready to march then. I guess this ends soon... one way or another."

Riordan smiled sadly. "That it does, my friend, that it does."

Alistair sighed again and nodded slightly. He turned then toward where Myranda had been standing only to find her gone. A look toward the door confirmed that it was partially ajar—she had slipped away.

"You know her better than I," Riordan said, "but perhaps all she needs is time."

"I think we both do."

"I am sorry, Alistair. I know that the two of you are quite close."

"I asked to marry her," he said softly.

The sad smile returned to Riordan's lips. "I am sorry it is a wedding I will not live to see. But I sincerely hope that both of you do."

Alistair looked at him. "It's all right that we're getting married, right? I mean, the other Wardens aren't going to try to split us apart."

"It is rare, but not forbidden for Grey Wardens to marry. So long as it does not interfere with your duty, the First Warden should have no objections."

"Good." He'd kill anyone who tried to take her from him.

"Take some rest, Alistair," Riordan told him. "However dark things look now, the sun will still rise tomorrow."

The younger man nodded and left the room. He paused by the door to the room he was sharing with Myranda, but, hearing nothing inside, he continued down the hallway. He wandered aimlessly down the stairs and along the hallways, Riordan's words echoing in his mind.

_"A darkspawn is an empty, soulless vessel, but a Grey Warden is not. The essence of the archdemon is destroyed... and so is the Grey Warden."_

One of them was going to die. Why hadn't Duncan told him before? Why hadn't _anyone_ told him before? That he could lose Myranda, the only woman he'd ever loved... but no. No, he didn't have to think that way. Riordan was going to give the final blow. They'd lose Riordan, but... as long as Myranda was safe. If anything happened to her.... He was so distracted that he nearly ran into Morrigan, who was standing in one of the hallways, leaning against the wall. "Don't you knock?" he asked.

Morrigan looked at him and raised one eyebrow fractionally. "'Tis a hallway," she said.

Alistair blinked, only then realizing how inane the question was. "Yes," he said, "well." He cleared his throat. "We march on Denerim soon. So sleep will be good." He smirked then. " _If_ you witches _sleep_ , that is. Or maybe you could turn into a cat and chase mice? That might be fun."

Morrigan said nothing to his goading, looking away and returning to her own churning thoughts.

Alistair frowned. "Right then," he said. "Don't watch me sleep," he said as he passed by her. "It's creepy."

"Do you love her?"

Alistair stopped, startled by the sudden question. "What—" He turned back to the apostate mage. "What kind of question is _that_?"

"A simple one," Morrigan said.

"You wouldn't understand," he said acidly. "You don't care about _anyone_."

Morrigan looked away. "I... I care," she said softly.

Alistair stared at her for a moment, waiting to see if she was going anywhere with this line of conversation.

"We are not waiting for the Orlesian Wardens, are we?" she asked, sounding like she already knew the answer. "'Twill be just the three of you in Denerim."

"Riordan says we have a chance," he told her. He waited to see if she had anything else to say, then started back down the hallway.

"Alistair!" She waited until he turned back to face her. "If asking a friend to do something terrible might help..." she swallowed, forcing herself to ask, "would you do it?"

Hazel eyes blinked in surprise. " _You_ want advice?" he asked incredulously. "From _me_?"

"'Tis come to that, yes," she said with a slight sneer.

He smirked. "So... you have _friends_?"

The disdain faded from her face. "Only one," she said.

Alistair was surprised by this emotion in Morrigan. She actually looked... sad. Ashamed, even. "If I thought it would help," he said, deciding to give her an answer, "absolutely. We can use all the help we can get."

Morrigan lowered her eyes. There was a pause, as if Alistair waited to see if anything else was forthcoming, before his footsteps continued and faded down the stairs.

There it was. She had wondered if it would be worth the asking, and Alistair, all unknowing, had consented to her proposal. The only thing left to do now was to consult Myranda—and to hurt her. She watched the stone floor waver suddenly before the tears fell down her cheeks. She snorted and ran the back of her wrist across her eyes. "Weakness," she scolded herself. She lifted her golden eyes back to the stairway, forcing herself back under control. "You knew it could come to this," she consoled herself. "You warned her." Gathering her strength around her like a cloak, she climbed the stairs toward her sister's room.

 

 

Myranda stood in front of the fireplace in her room. After leaving Riordan's room, she had come in and nearly thrown herself on the bed, burying her face in her pillow to hide the sound of her sobs. Why? Why did it have to be this way? How could this happen? Her life was crumbling all over again, and all she could do was cry.

Now, nearly a half-hour later, she stared into the flames, her arms wrapped around her middle as her mind turned over different scenarios. How to gather the army quickly. How to lead them—something she'd never done. How to face the archdemon and make sure that as many of them as possible survived the encounter. How she was still going to manage to have the beautiful wedding she had imagined.

She turned as the door suddenly opened, her hand straying to the hilt of her dagger.

"Do not be alarmed," Morrigan said, holding up her hands. "It is only I."

"I'm sorry. Good evening, Morrigan. Is everything all right?"

"I am well. 'Tis you who are in danger." She closed the door and walked on silent feet into the room. "I know what happens when the archdemon dies. I know a Grey Warden must be sacrificed."

Myranda closed her eyes, too weary to feel surprised. She didn't think it necessary to ask how Morrigan knew this information. She knew, that was enough.

Morrigan studied the other young woman's face. She looked dreadful: her face was the picture of tragedy, and her green eyes were tired and rimmed in red... from crying, she was certain. "Alistair tells me you will not wait for the Orlesian Wardens."

"There's no time." Myranda shook her head. "Riordan says we may have a chance. But... if something were to happen to him before the final blow need be struck..." She squeezed her eyes shut and took two slow, deep breaths before looking back at the other woman and continuing. "He's willing to sacrifice himself to the archdemon, but I've been trying to find a way to make sure he remains alive long enough to do so."

"And to keep Alistair out of harm's way."

The blonde woman lowered her eyes. "Yes," she whispered. "You were right: love is death. Because I love him so much, I can't stand the thought of living without him." She was silent for a moment. "I know you probably consider that a weakness."

"I do not." She had been counting on that feeling.

Myranda looked over at her. She wanted to smile, but the corners of her mouth refused to lift. "Wynne warned me about this," she said softly, turning and leaning her forehead against the large hearth. "She said there may come a time when I would have to choose to protect the one I love or protect everyone else." She scrubbed her face with her hands. "I didn't want to make that choice. I still don't. And it seems there's only one way out."

"You are thinking of sacrificing yourself." She saw the blonde woman nod once. "I have come to tell you this does not need to be."

The Grey Warden whirled around and stared at Morrigan in surprise.

"I have a plan, you see. The loop in your hole."

"It does not need to be?" Myranda repeated, her brain feeling like it were moving through sinking sand. "What do you mean?"

"I offer a way out," she said evasively. "A way out for all the Grey Wardens, that there need be no sacrifice. A ritual... performed on the eve of battle, in the dark of night."

Myranda's face lit up in relief. "I knew it!" she breathed. "I knew your magic could help us!" She rushed toward the other woman and started to reach for her hand and stopped, drawing the hand back to her chest. "I knew you could save us."

Morrigan looked away, unable to look into the Grey Warden's trusting face any longer. She wished that the other woman wasn't so dear a friend to her... it would be easier were she not. But it could not be helped.

Myranda's face fell. "What's wrong, Sister Morrigan?"

The young witch took a deep breath, steadying herself for the blow. It would hurt her sister, but what price the hurt to save her life? She lifted her eyes again, staring into Myranda's so there would be no misunderstanding. "What I propose is this: convince Alistair to lay with me. Here, tonight. And from this ritual a child shall be conceived within me."

She watched as the blonde woman stared at her, eyes widening with astonishment, disbelief, and... yes, revulsion. She took two steps away from her, recoiling as if she'd turned into a serpent or spider, and shook her head. Her mouth opened and formed the word 'No,' but no sound came out—only her hard, horrified panting. Her green eyes lowered to the floor then and she turned away and walked unsteadily back toward the massive hearth, staring into the flames as she seemed to take in the shock. Her body quivered noticeably as she wrapped her arms around herself and curled inward.

Then, suddenly, she grew still. Her panting ceased. Her spine slowly straightened, her shoulders went back, and her chin lifted. When she turned around again, the young witch was startled by the look in her eyes—dark, empty, and as hard and cold as stone. Her jaw was set into a firm and uncompromising line and there seemed to be no emotion in her at all. She was all of a sudden as unlike the woman she had been two minutes before as Morrigan could tell.

"You would consent to do this yourself?" the Grey Warden asked flatly.

"I would."

"Tell me more about this ritual."

"The child will bear the taint," Morrigan explained, "and when the archdemon is slain, its essence will seek the child like a beacon. At this early stage, the child can absorb that essence and not perish. The archdemon is still destroyed, with no Grey Warden dying in the process."

"So the child becomes a darkspawn?" Myranda asked shrewdly.

"Not at all. It will become something different: a child born with the soul of an Old God."

"Purified."

Morrigan nodded. "After this is done, you allow me to walk away... and you do not follow. Ever. The child will be mine to raise as I wish."

Myranda turned away from her again in disgust. "Why Alistair?" she asked, not even trying to hide the poisonous jealousy that flowed through her veins. "Why not Riordan?"

"Even if I thought Riordan could be convinced," the young witch said, "he is unsuitable. I need one who has not been tainted for long." She shook her head. "It must be him, and it must be tonight."

"One night with the man I love, my fiancé, in exchange for his—and my—life. A dark bargain conceived in the blackest shadows of the Fade." Myranda drew her dagger and buried the point deeply into the wood of a nearby table in her frustration. "Maker help me, I have no choice!" She turned and looked at the other woman again. "I agree to your proposal, Sister Morrigan," she said, hating the words as they left her lips. Her voice became harsh and flat then. "You told me once that the most important lesson you learned was that first you must survive. You were right."

Morrigan's brow furrowed slightly. It was disturbing to see Myranda this way, as cold as the winter wind and as unfeeling as Flemeth could be when the mood struck her. She paced the room like a caged animal, restless and dangerous.

"This is a question of survival. I will not allow Alistair to sacrifice himself—I couldn't live without him." Her voice cracked and her emotionless mask slipped for a moment before she ruthlessly recovered it. "And he would not go on without me. There is no choice to make: this is our only option. I see that." She stopped and looked at the young witch then. "But you must give me some time. Give me time to convince..." Her voice cut off at the soft tap on the door, which opened a moment later. "Alistair," she breathed as her betrothed stepped into the room.

Alistair looked between the two women, barely masking his distaste when he looked at Morrigan. "I'd hoped to speak to you alone," he said to Myranda.

Myranda turned away from him, walking to the hearth. "Morrigan knows what happens when the archdemon is killed."

"Really. Was she a literal fly on the wall earlier?"

She did not respond to this, nor did she turn. She couldn't face him. Not now. "What if I told you there was a way to avoid dying in the battle?" she asked.

"You mean with the archdemon, right? If you mean running away, I can't do that." He stared at her back. "But you don't mean that, do you?" he asked softly. "What's this about?"

"Morrigan has a way to save us."

"Really?"

"Yes."

He looked over at Morrigan, suspicious but searching for confirmation for what Myranda was saying.

Morrigan nodded, saying nothing. She would let Myranda handle this—her sister knew best how to manipulate Alistair and to make him do what was needed.

"So what is it, then?" he asked Myranda. "Tell me. I can take it."

"I love you," Myranda said. "You know that, don't you?"

"Could you make it sound more ominous?" Alistair asked with a smirk. "Tell me, already."

"I..." Myranda stopped and took a deep breath. It was perhaps best not to think about what she was about to ask of him. "I need you to take part in a magic ritual."

"What kind of ritual?"

"Close the door."

Alistair frowned and narrowed his eyes, stepping into the room and pushing the door softly closed behind him. Myranda wasn't looking at him—that was a bad sign. "What kind of ritual?" he repeated.

"There is a ritual she can do that will draw the soul of the archdemon into the body of her unborn child—a child conceived tonight by a Grey Warden." She let it stand there, knowing he would work out what she was asking of him.

There was a long minute of silence. Then, "No."

Myranda lowered her head.

"You didn't agree to this, did you?"

"There is no other way."

"What about Riordan? Can't he do this?"

"No. The taint is too strong in him. It... it must be you."

"But Riordan said that he was going to kill the archdemon!"

"And if he doesn't survive to make that final blow, what then? One of us would have to sacrifice herself."

He noticed her deliberate use of the pronoun. "It's not possible!" he said, returning to the original matter. "Grey Wardens can't conceive! The taint makes it nearly impossible... we've been trying for six months!"

"That is part of the ritual," Morrigan interjected. "With magic, it will be possible."

"Don't you think this is a little _too_ convenient for her?" he asked Myranda, ignoring what Morrigan had said. "Think about it. You really think this is a good idea?"

"Your confidence is most reassuring," Morrigan said acidly.

Alistair was stunned at this turn of events. This couldn't really be happening! "I... I must be hearing things, but are you telling me to _impregnate_ Morrigan in some kind of magical sex rite?!" He stared at Myranda's back for a few moments and was met with silence. "You're not _actually_ asking me this, are you?" Again he got no answer, which he took as confirmation. "Wow, be killed by the archdemon or sleep with Morrigan. How does someone make that kind of choice?"

"Do not speak about me as if I am not present!"

"Look," he said, ignoring Morrigan again, "even if I was willing to entertain this idea... and I'm not saying I am... is this really what you want me to do? Are you sure...?"

"I offer this to allow the both of you to survive the coming battle, and thus to be together," Morrigan interrupted. "Apparently you do not care about my sister as much as she cares for you."

"What do you know about it?" Alistair asked acidly, turning on her. "You've never cared about anyone! You'll never understand!"

She sneered at him. "You said before that you would be willing to do something terrible if it would help. I am offering..."

"I didn't think that 'help' would be asking me to sleep with _you_. How do we know this is going to work, anyway? You're malificar... rotten to the core! You don't care about..."

"Then perhaps I should leave and allow Myranda..."

" _Enough_!" Myranda shouted, startling the other two into silence. She turned and stared at them furiously, kicking a chair violently out of her way as she stormed over to them. "That is enough! I will listen to this _childish_ bickering no longer!" She looked at Alistair then. "There is no decision to make," she said. "I need you to trust me."

"I _do_ trust you," he said, looking slightly hurt. "It's _her_ I don't trust."

Myranda looked over at the other woman. "I trust you, Sister Morrigan," she said. "Do not make me live to regret that." She looked back at Alistair then, her eyes softening. "I ask that you do this, my love," she whispered, taking his hand. "I beg of you. _Please_. Will you do this? For us?"

He looked at her for several long, quiet moments. "No," he said finally.

Myranda's eyes widened in shock and hurt. Was he really going to let his hatred of Morrigan stand in the way of their only chance for survival?

He lifted his hand to her face then, cupping her cheek. "I'll do this for you."

She tried to smile, to thank him, to do anything to show how much she loved him and appreciated what he was willing to do. But she couldn't. Instead, she found that her eyes only welled with tears, and an unspeakable and poisonous hatred for the whole thing coursed through her blood. Unable to look at him any longer—to face the sacrifice he was making—she ran from the room, fleeing down the stairs.

Morrigan and Alistair watched for a few long moments before Alistair moved and closed the door again softly. The soft click seemed like the bell of impending doom.

"Shall we, then?" Morrigan asked.

"Wait," he said, not turning from the door. "I want to ask about this... child. The one you... want."

Morrigan lifted an eyebrow. "Interesting. Honesty wouldn't have been _my_ first choice."

"I just want to be sure that you're not going to use this—against Ferelden." He turned to look at the apostate then. "Or against _her_ ," he added pointedly. "That this bastard child of mine isn't going to show up some year..."

"Of that you have my word," she interrupted. "Once this is over I shall be gone—forever. Both of you shall live and the child shall be mine to raise. That is my agreement with my sister."

Alistair sighed heavily. "Why don't I feel any better about this?" He shook his head. "All right. Let's... just get this over with."

Morrigan smirked. "Believe me when I say you will not hate this quite so much as you believe."

"I doubt that."

 

 

Myranda ran. She didn't know where she was going, didn't care to know. She brushed past Teagan in the main hall and didn't stop even when he called to her. She burst through the castle doors and nearly stumbled twice on the stairs before falling down the last two, collapsing onto her knees in the courtyard. All her energy seemed to leave her then as she leaned forward to place her forehead on the cobbles. What had she done? How could she have asked him to... but did they truly have any other choice? She honestly didn't know if this ritual was even going to work... but then, why would Morrigan lie, especially about this? Why... why had she allowed herself to fall so deeply in love with Alistair, to make her nearly refuse their one chance at survival? The poisonous hatred she had fought back blossomed through her veins then, and the intensity of it made her head throb and her eyes water. She hated Morrigan for her cold calculation of facts and how she'd burned her with her friendship. And she hated Alistair, too, for being so sweet and funny and awkwardly charming and for making her fall in love with him. She hated them... because she loved them both so much.

She heard soft footsteps in the darkness and tensed. Her hand strayed to her dagger only to find it missing... still buried in the table in her room. "Who's there?" she demanded, reaching instead for her knife.

"Have no fear," Zevran said, stepping into the light. "It is only I." Concern etched his features. "Are you all right?"

Myranda closed her eyes, shutting the past two hours tightly into a mental box and locking it securely. She stood slowly, brushing herself off as she gathered her control around her like a cloak. When she looked up, the hard, cold woman she had nearly become was firmly in place. "I am."

Zevran noted the change in her immediately, but made no mention of it. "I understand we are beginning our march to Denerim in the morning."

"We are."

"The time has come to save the world, has it?"

She nodded once. "It has indeed." She waved him toward the stairs to the outer ramparts, inviting him to accompany her. "Have you seen the army?"

"What there is of it," Zevran said as they climbed the stairs. "The mages have just arrived... on a boat, of all things."

"How many?"

"A dozen, if that, including a delightfully tiny blonde minx."

Myranda pursed her lips in frustration. "That's not as many as I'd hoped."

"Of course, they have a small escort of..."

"Yes," she interrupted before he could say the word. "Of course they do."

Zevran looked up at her, finding her behavior continually strange.

"Who else?" she asked impatiently. "The dwarves? Dalish?"

"We received word from the Dalish: they will join us on the road."

"Fine. Good."

"And I am certain the dwarves are marching as fast as their short little legs can carry them... provided they are not cowering in fear of falling up into the sky." The attempt at humor was lost on her, however, the final warning that something was seriously wrong.

"Damn it. They couldn't move slower if they were driving a herd of brontos." She looked down on the lights from the dozens of campfires on the hills between the village and the castle. "Damn!"

Zevran frowned. "Come," he said, gesturing to the battlement. "Your mind needs to move away from this dark time. Sit a while." He practically pushed her down to sit next to him. "I would not worry, my dear," he told her. "Your army will do well, I am certain. You have nothing to fear."

She looked up at him, her face hard and cold. "I will fight," she said. "And I will survive."

He was disturbed by the set of her shoulders, the aura of murder that surrounded her. He could almost smell her bloodlust... her need for the kill. The Crows had nurtured it in their assassins and he recognized the signs in her.

"I'll need someone I can trust at my back when I fight the archdemon," she said. "Can I count on you?"

Zevran met her eyes evenly before reaching over and placing his hand on her wrist. "I have sworn my oath of loyalty to you, Myranda," he said softly. "But even without it, I would follow you. By your side I would willingly storm the gates of the Dark City itself. Never doubt it."

Her eyes softened and she managed a small smile. Almost immediately her eyes welled with tears and she lowered her head to hide them. There was to be no stopping them. She didn't even try.

"Myranda?"

She broke down then. All of her emotions crashed down in a wave and she couldn't stop them. She leaned toward him, clinging almost desperately to him as she cried onto his shoulder. She didn't know what else to do. She hated what she had asked Alistair to do. She hated the choice she had been forced to make. But there was nothing else to be done. How could she choose death when the option for life had been handed to her? But at what cost? She hated the decision, but it was her only option. And that simple truth only made her cry harder.

Zevran didn't know what to do. He'd never truly comforted anyone before. Something was obviously terribly wrong... and for her to be this upset it had to have something to do with Alistair. If he'd hurt her now, when she needed him most, he swore he would fulfill half of the terms of his bygone mission and kill him. Slowly. "Myranda, what has happened? What's wrong?"

She told him. Around the hiccups and the sobs she told him about what Riordan had said, about Morrigan's offer, and about what she'd asked Alistair to do. And how she hated it. How she hated having to ask him to do such a terrible thing, though it would save their lives. How she hated that she felt the way she did—this was their only option... it was necessary and would mean nothing, why did she feel so spiteful and jealous? "I wish I'd never fallen in love with him."

"You don't mean that."

She sighed heavily as she let go of him, sitting up straight again. "No. I don't." She shook her head. "We were supposed to be married after all of this was over. It wasn't supposed to be this way!" She squeezed her eyes shut against another flood of tears that fell down her cheeks. "Wynne was right. I'm a selfish bitch."

"Selfish!" Zevran was shocked. "How does this make you selfish?"

"Wynne told me that love is ultimately selfish... and that there may come a day where I'd have to choose between saving everyone or saving my love." She sniffled. "And I've chosen my love."

"Alistair also agreed to this, yes? He consented of his own free will?"

"Y-yes..."

"Then this also would make him selfish, in your opinion?"

"I suppose."

"Myranda, you are saving his life! And he yours! Personally I have never seen these as selfish acts." He lifted an eyebrow at her. "And I do not see how this will endanger everyone else... you will still slay the archdemon and save the world, yes?"

"Yes."

Zevran spread his arms wide. "Then where is the selfishness in this?" He smiled uneasily as she only sobbed harder at this question. "There, now, Myranda," he murmured. "Come now, _mi amor_ , no more tears."

She leaned against him again. How could this have happened? And how would she be able to live with the consequences? She cried until there were no more tears, letting Zevran comfort her as best he could.


	46. The Long March

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The army marches for Denerim and some wounds are healed.
> 
> One last sex scene in this chapter. As always, it will be marked off between *~*~*~*~* breaks.

**Chapter 46: The Long March**

_"Maker, though the darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm. I shall endure. What you have created, no one can tear asunder." ~Canticle of Trials 1:10_

 

Myranda stood on the east battlements, waiting for the sun. The twilight sky was a canvas of soft pastels and the birds had begun their morning serenade about an hour before, their songs growing more numerous as the sky continued to lighten. But the beauty was lost on her. She saw only the darkness on the far horizon, thought only of the horror that would have to be faced. The dwarves had been marching day and night to reach Redcliffe and had arrived less than an hour earlier—Eamon’s messengers, finding them so close, had escorted them without sending word and had received a severe tongue-lashing from the Grey Warden for it. There were nearly a hundred of them including Kardol and fifty of his Legion of the Dead. With the Dalish meeting them between Lothering and the forest—word was Lanaya had been able to spare seventy-five of her archers—the dozen mages that had arrived from the tower the previous evening and the one hundred men from Redcliffe and the surrounding area, her army was complete. Her brows dropped. The time had come.

Alistair climbed the stairs slowly and quietly. He didn’t like the set of her shoulders or the tension in her posture. He knew she could hear his approach, but she didn’t turn, either. Not that he really blamed her: he didn’t want to face him after what he’d had to do, either. He reached the top and walked over to stand with her, his brow furrowing when she didn’t look at him or even acknowledge him. They stood quietly for a few minutes before he finally cleared his throat in the awkward silence.

She looked over at him then, but she wasn’t there in her eyes. They were cold, flat, and empty. They were the eyes of a woman whose soul had died.

_"I would be cold and unfeeling, driven by duty but dead inside. I’d be more like Morrigan than the woman herself."_

It was a defense mechanism, he knew that. He’d seen it enough to know that she only retreated into herself when she didn’t want to deal with the pain the situation around her was causing. He said nothing—there was nothing he could say to make it better—and held out the wavy-bladed dagger she had left buried in the table last night.

Myranda looked down and wrapped her hand around the hilt, taking the blade and returning it to its scabbard on her left hip before lifting her eyes again, nodding her thanks. She looked back up at him, wanting to return his uneasy smile, to assure him that everything was all right. But it wasn't. And it never would be ever again.

The first crimson beams of light from the rising sun shot across the landscape then, catching the blonde young woman’s attention and Alistair again marveled at the pink gold color of her hair. She was beautiful... more beautiful than the dawn. She was his friend, his lover, his fiancé... and she was hurting. Without even thinking about it, he stepped toward her and folded her in his arms, hugging her gently. "Myranda,” he whispered.

She shrugged out of his embrace before brushing by him. ”Let’s go,” she ordered.

Alistair watched her walk away, hurt by her cold indifference.

“Give her some time,” Zevran said from behind him. ”She has had a rough night as well.”

He turned to the elf before looking back to where Myranda was walking across the courtyard toward the castle. ”It wasn’t my choice.”

“Nor hers.” Zevran attempted to smile, though it failed for the most part. ”This is difficult for all of us, my friend, but it need not strain your relationship. It will not, if you do not allow it to do so.”

Alistair looked at him for a long moment before a small, sad smile crossed his lips. ”There was a time, Zevran...”

“I know.” The assassin reached up and clapped the other man on the back. ”Come on. Before she leaves the both of us behind.”

 

 

The army couldn’t march fast enough for Myranda. She pushed them as fast as she could, but they still seemed to move at a snail’s pace. Some evenings she and Alistair spent with Riordan, learning all they would need to know as Senior Wardens. Others she spent in war council with the other two Wardens as well as Irving, Kardol and Dulin Forender, who was commanding the main force of dwarves, Eamon, Teagan, and Anora. On one occasion, Myranda approached the First Enchanter about the small number of mages with him.

“I don’t mean to sound ungrateful,” she began, “and I realize what happened at the tower reduced your numbers, but... was twelve truly all you could manage?”

“Twelve mages is actually quite a lot, Commander.”

Myranda looked over at the young woman who had spoken. She was tiny, even for an elf, her eyes a lovely dark blue-green. Her voice had a slight Antivan lilt, though she looked Fereldan, and, to Myranda’s surprise, she was human and not elven as her height had led her to believe, a fact backed up by her rounded ears, revealed by the fact that her pale blonde hair was pulled back into two tails on either side of her head.

“My name is Caeda Amell,” she said in response to the commander’s raised eyebrow. ”I’m not sure you remember, but I was at the tower when you came to save the Circle.”

“I do remember. How do you do?”

“Caeda is the head of our healers,” Irving explained. He chuckled as the Grey Warden’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. ”She’s young, but she’s the best healer the tower has ever seen.”

“No idle flattery, that,” Myranda said. ”In that case, it is a great pleasure to meet you,” she said to the other blonde.

Caeda nodded.

“Now...” Myranda said, turning back to the city map, “about this plan...”

The council discussed plans, scrapped them, and remade them for an hour, and the Grey Warden woman became more and more frustrated. Finally, she slammed her fist down on the map.

“No, damn it! That won’t do!” she yelled.

“All right,” Alistair said. ”Come on, my dear. You can work on this tomorrow.”

“No! There’s no time.”

“Myranda,” he said soothingly.

“Don’t 'Myranda' me!” she yelled, whirling on him. ”We must get this right!”

“Then come walk with me for a moment.”

“Go, Myranda,” Riordan urged gently. ”A moment away will clear your head.”

Baby barked and whined his worry about her.

Myranda sighed in aggravation. ”Fine,” she snarled, pushing away from the table and storming out of the tent, Alistair two steps behind her.

They made their way through the camp, past the different encampments of each division, and into the forest beyond. Alistair didn’t know how far she planned on walking, but he finally grabbed her, pulling her back into his arms to hold her tightly, despite how she struggled.

“Let me go!”

“Never,” he murmured. ”I’ll never let you go.”

She clutched his shirt and tried to push him away. ”Stop it.”

“Myranda,” he said, nuzzling her hair. ”You know I love you, Myranda. I love you more than anything in this world.”

She knew what he was doing: he was trying to save her. Well, she wouldn’t let him... not this time. She couldn’t let him fall into her darkness. And the only way to save him would be to savage him and drive him away. ”I don’t feel the same way.”

He winced at the cold flatness of her voice as well as the words themselves, no matter how untrue they may be. He put his hands on her shoulders and stepped away from her. ”Look at me and tell me.” She lifted her eyes to his, but the defiance in them quickly flickered out and he watched as she fought against her feelings for him.

Myranda bit her lip to stop its trembling. No... she couldn’t... she had to harden herself against this. She couldn’t fall for him again. It would make the situation that much more painful.

“You told me we would stay together,” Alistair said, “no matter what happened. And I want us to stay together. You’re the love of my life and I want you with me always.” He lowered his head to hers. ”I will always love you... in sunshine and rain, and through the darkest night will I stand by your side.”

Myranda squeezed her eyes shut as he recited part of the marriage vow. ”Please... please don’t do this.”

“Stop trying to protect me,” he murmured. ”You’re killing yourself trying to pull away from the world around you.” He tightened his arms around her. ”I love you, Myranda. Please don’t do this to yourself.”

“I...”

“I know you’re scared... I’m scared too. I know you don’t want things to be this way, but they are. Let me help you get through this. I don’t want you to face this alone.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. ”You’d never let me go through this alone, don’t keep me from helping you now.”

Myranda couldn’t stop the tears that slid down her cheeks. ”I’m sorry,” she whispered, wrapping her arms tightly around him. ”I love you... you know I love you more than anything.”

“I know.” He held her tightly as she cried, knowing her pain. He had felt dreadful since they left Redcliffe, knowing how much what he had done—what he had had to do—had hurt her. He leaned his head against hers, closing his eyes as he breathed her scent.

Myranda clutched his shirt, completely crying out her misery as she hadn’t been able to when he was undergoing the ritual with Morrigan. She sobbed for fifteen minutes before finally feeling there was nothing left in her. She nuzzled his shoulder before opening her eyes, a gasp escaping her as she lifted her head. ”Look,” she whispered.

Alistair looked around as well. In the field around them, several dozen soft yellow lights winked on and off, lazily floating through the air. ”Glowflies,” he breathed.

Myranda nodded. ”Lights in the darkness.”

“It’s kind of romantic, too, isn’t it.”

She looked back up at him, a gentle smile on her lips. ”I love you, Alistair,” she whispered.

“And I love you,” he murmured, leaning forward and catching her lips in a gentle kiss.

 

 

After that night Myranda was more bearable. The men stopped holding their breath when she walked by, and a few even started responding when she spoke to them. One evening they were surprised to hear her laughing at one of the men’s jokes. After passing the ruin of Lothering, her good humor started to fade again, though she didn’t slip into the anger that had been part of her mood the first few days of the march.

One evening, after meeting alone with Riordan and discussing a few things, Myranda was a little surprised to see Alistair by their tent, fidgeting with something. ”Alistair?”

He turned and looked at her, a soft smile on his face. ”Look at this,” he said, holding out his hand to her. ”Do you know what this is?”

Myranda looked at the object he held and smiled. He was holding the rose he had given her all those months ago. ”Your new weapon of choice,” she said.

He smiled. ”Yes, that’s right.” He looked at the flower. ”I remember thinking when I found it in Lothering, 'How could something so beautiful exist where there is so much despair and ugliness?’ I couldn’t just leave it there... the darkspawn would just destroy it... so I kept it.”

“It’s a nice sentiment.”

“But I want you to have it,” he said, looking at her with a soft smile on his lips. ”Because there are a lot of times when I think the same thing about you.”

Myranda made a great show of looking surprised before clasping her hands in front of her and looking away in embarrassment. ”Oh... I don’t know... I...”

“Please.”

She gave him a shy smile and took the flower from him. ”Thank you, Alistair.”

“I’m glad you like it.” He stared into her deep green eyes, feeling himself gladly falling into them. ”Now, let’s... let’s get back to... what we were up to before. Lest I forget why we’re here.”

“Would that be so bad? To forget why we’re here for a while?”

“Do you think so?”

She stared at him for a few moments before shaking her head. ”No, I don’t think it would.”

“Me neither.”

She allowed a smirk to cross her lips. ”So how would you like to join me in my tent?” she murmured.

It was his turn to fake surprise. ”Join you? In your tent?”

She pretended to look concerned. ”If you don’t want to...”

“Oh, that’s not it.”

She saw the gleam in his eyes when he said it and giggled softly. There were some things that acting couldn’t suppress.

“Not at all. Not that I want to seem over-eager...”

“Too late,” she whispered.

He sighed a little and smiled at her, lifting his hand to cup her cheek before leaning his forehead against hers. ”I want this to be right.”

“I think this is as right as it gets,” she whispered against his lips before closing the distance between them.

The kiss was slow, deep, and sensual, instantly blocking the entire world around them. Myranda’s feet left the ground and she clung to him for support even as his arms wrapped tightly around her waist. She moaned softly, a familiar fire licking through her body.

“Wait a minute,” Alistair breathed when they broke apart. ”I was supposed to kiss you before you asked me into your tent.”

Myranda smirked. ”Well, we’ll just have to do that part now.” She ran her fingertips along the silver chain around his neck and pulled the pendant from beneath his shirt, tracing the engraving upon it.

“I can’t believe you remembered it,” Alistair murmured.

“Of course I remembered.” She looked up at him and smiled. ”You’re special to me.”

He smiled back at her. ”It might sound strange, considering we haven’t known each other very long, but I love you, Myranda. We’ve been through so much together... but I could just be fooling myself.”

She smiled back, leaning into his touch as he ran the backs of his fingers along her cheek.

“Am I?” he whispered into her ear. ”Fooling myself? Or could you ever feel the same way about me?”

“I already do,” she said softly. ”I love you.”

Though he had known what her answer would be, Alistair found he had still held his breath, his heart pounding in his chest. His lips found hers again and he kissed her deeply, losing himself completely in her. ”I think we should move to our tent,” he murmured when he broke the kiss several long minutes later.

“You mean you won’t make love to me right here in front of everyone?” Myranda teased. She giggled when he blushed.

“I don’t like it when _Baby_ watches us.”

*~*~*~*~*

She laughed and pulled him into their tent, falling back into another deep kiss. They fumbled like adolescents with each other’s armor, breaking their kiss with a quiet laugh as they pulled away to pay attention to what they were doing.

“There,” Alistair said as he undid the last buckle on her snug leather breastplate. He pulled it off, leaving her in her shirt and leggings before kissing her again, reaching for the pins that held her hair. Soon his fingers were coursing through the golden ocean, reveling in its softness.

Myranda let herself go. She forgot about everything but him: the feel of his hands and his body, the smell of his lust, the taste of his kiss. She wrapped her leg around his waist, moaning into his mouth as he gripped her thigh and pulled her against him, feeling his insistent arousal through their clothing. Mindlessly she rocked against him. How long had it been since they had made love? An eternity, at least.

“I just want to kiss you forever,” Alistair whispered breathlessly when they broke apart again.

“I wouldn’t mind that,” she murmured before catching his lips again in another desperately passionate kiss.

They pulled each other’s clothes off hurriedly before turning their kisses to each other’s bodies. Myranda traced each and every one of Alistair’s well-defined muscles with her tongue while her hands caressed his thighs, an evil smirk crossing her lips as she moved one hand higher to stroke him as her breasts brushed against his length. He took this gentle torture for longer than she expected before he flipped her onto her back. She moaned his name loudly, feeling his hands everywhere as his tongue licked a fiery trail down her neck before he latched onto her left nipple, sucking hard enough to make her gasp.

Her long legs opened readily to him, and Alistair massaged her thigh before sliding his hand up and cupping her, moaning at how hot and wet she was already. He drank in her squeak and whimper of pure lust as he touched her sensitive bud, listening to her pant and moan as he pushed two fingers easily inside her. Her hips rocked eagerly as he moved them, his free hand roughly massaging her breast as he nipped and sucked on her neck.

“Dammit, Alistair,” she said around her loud moan as he curled his fingers up inside her, digging her fingernails into his shoulder as he rubbed the elusive pleasure spot there. ”Don’t... oh, _Maker_... don’t just... _ah_... toy with me...”

“But you told me you _liked_ being toyed with,” he murmured into her ear. He sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth as he felt her hand on his manhood again, rubbing him in a matching rhythm to the movement of his fingers inside her.

“And so do you...” she murmured.

This mutual tease continued for only a few minutes before neither one could stand it any longer. Alistair smiled a little at her as he moved to take her. ”Here lies the abyss,” he whispered around his soft panting, “the well of souls.” He leaned his forehead against hers, staring deeply into her eyes. ”From these emerald waters doth life begin anew.”

She returned his smile slowly. ”Come to me, child,” she murmured, “and I shall embrace you. In my arms lies Eternity.”

*~*~*~*~*

Hours later they lay together, both panting heavily from exertion. The high was fading and the two Wardens had been reduced to a sweaty tangle of limbs that quivered slightly in the aftermath. In the end, it was Alistair who broke the silence.

“How long has it been?”

“Ten minutes.”

“No, I mean since we started spending the night together.”

Myranda thought about it for a few moments, though her concentration broke when he started to trail soft kisses along her shoulder. ”Was that a rhetorical question?” she asked. ”Because it’s terribly hard to think when you do that.”

“Sorry, my love.”

She quickly counted the weeks in her head. ”Eight and a half months,” she murmured, “since we started sleeping together. A little less than a year ago that we met.”

“That can’t be.”

“It’s the seventh of Justinian. We met at the end of August last year.”

He nuzzled her. ”It feels like so much longer than that.”

“Our whole lives?”

“Yes.”

She tightened her arms around him. ”A month ago,” she whispered. ”A month ago you asked me to marry you. And I want to marry you. I want us to spend the rest of our lives together.”

“And we will.”

“If... if Morrigan’s ritual works.”

“It will work,” he murmured. ”I don’t trust her, but why would she lie? She hates me... you know that. I can’t believe she would make it up just to...” his voice trailed off, unable to speak of it.

Myranda frowned, burying her face in his neck. ”Whatever happens,” she whispered, “no matter what, remember that I love you... always.”

Alistair held her close, unable to shake the feeling that their time together was limited.


	47. Parting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The army marches on Denerim, and the party of friends parts ways.

**Chapter 47: Parting**

_"They who go Feel not the pain of parting; it is they Who stay behind that suffer." ~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_

 

The sky grew darker the closer they got to Denerim. Every day, even after the Dalish joined them after they passed the ruins of Lothering, Myranda looked out over the army and despaired at its size, and each night she held on to Alistair tighter and tighter. She spent some of her evenings wandering amongst the army, speaking to them, giving words of comfort when she needed.

Most of the nights, however, she spent with her traveling companions, trying to hold on to the camaraderie they had shared. She talked often with Zevran and Leliana, confessed her fears to Wynne, spoke softly with Sten about the upcoming battle. She even had a drink with Oghren one night when she was feeling particularly bad, a decision she didn't repeat.

At dawn on the day they found themselves outside the city, Myranda stared in somber silence on a hill. Part of the city must have been in flames at some point: smoke hung heavily in the air. She heard the footsteps heading toward her, but didn't turn. "It looks bad, doesn't it?"

"It is always darkest before the dawn," Riordan told her. "The Blight will end here, Sister."

Myranda looked up at the sky. "Maker, my enemies are abundant," she recited. "But I shall not fear the legion, should they set themselves against me."

"And may the Maker have mercy on them," Anora said as she walked up to join them.

The Grey Warden glanced at her. "We will free the city, your Majesty."

"I'm certain you will, Warden."

"Arl Eamon just told me that his army is ready to march," Alistair said, walking toward them.

"Then we should be underway," Riordan said.

Myranda nodded. "Right."

Anora looked at her. "Will you speak to them?"

"You are their queen."

"I am the queen of the men here, yes. But this army is yours. I will make the speech if you wish, but it would be insufficient for some of them, I think."

Green eyes met blue evenly before Myranda nodded slightly, the barest acknowledgement of her words. She turned and stepped forward to the edge of the platform to look out over the accumulation of troops. Some were calm, others anxious, still others—too many—looking nervous or frightened. They knew the archdemon waited for them in the city, and they were rightly afraid. She set her features. That fear could not be allowed to turn into full-blown terror.

"Armies of Ferelden!" she called. "Hear me!" She looked around as the nervous rattling quieted. She looked over at Eamon, who nodded at her. Teagan, who graced her with a slight smile. First Enchanter Irving, who watched her in patient expectancy. Kardol, who met her gaze evenly. Lanaya, who stood amidst her people and watched her calmly. Finally she looked at the small knot of her traveling companions, all of them looking solemn. She took a deep breath and looked away, back over the masses.

"Today we put aside our differences," she began. "Elves and dwarves, mages and men must stand together lest we all perish under this Blight. And the Grey Wardens stand with you." She lifted her hand to gesture to the two men flanking her. "Though our numbers have dwindled and were nearly lost at Ostagar, here we stand ready to spill our blood and die to protect Ferelden. I take up my task with confidence and hope. I feel sure that our cause will not be suffered to fail! All of you have gathered because you have been called to honor your ancient treaties with the Grey Wardens, and I call myself honored to stand with you. Let us go forward together with our united strength. For stand united we shall—we must!—or we are all lost.

"Before us stands the might of the darkspawn horde," she continued, pointing toward Denerim. "Gaze upon them, but fear them not! We must not allow ourselves to be intimidated, for intimidation will spell death for us all." She looked over at Kardol and his Legion. "Death must not be feared," she said, nodding slightly to them before looking away. "Death, in time, comes to all of us. And every man is frightened in his first action. But the real hero is the man who fights despite his fear. Some get over their fright quickly, for others it may take longer. But a real man will never let the fear of death overpower his honor, his sense of duty, to his country and to his manhood.

"I know I have the body of a woman," she went on, glancing over at Sten as she said it, "but I have the heart and stomach of a warrior. I myself take up arms, and I will fight with you." She saw the qunari's subtle look of approval only because she was looking for it. "I shall be your general, judge, and rewarder of every one of your virtues in the field. I stand before you now resolved, in the midst and heat of the battle, to live and die amongst you... to lay down for the Maker, and for the peoples of Ferelden, my honor and my blood.

"We have before us an ordeal of the most grievous kind. Undoubtedly the greatest obstacles are still ahead—you still have a battle to fight, a city to capture. But is there one among you whose courage is abating?" She waved her hand in a show of denial. "I say no! All of you are consumed with a desire to extend the glory of Ferelden. And the grateful nation will owe its prosperity to you.

"It would be foolish to disguise the gravity of the hour. It would be still more foolish, however, to lose heart and courage. Our strategy is a simple one. It is to wage war, with all our might and with all the strength that the Maker can give us; to wage war against a monstrous darkness that threatens our homes and peoples.

"You ask, what is our aim? I can answer in one word: It is victory. Victory at all costs. Victory in spite of all terror. Victory, however long and hard the battle may be; for without victory, there is no survival." She felt a surge of energy rush through her as the words came to her, noticed how the armies had drawn closer and now seethed not with nervousness, but anticipation. "Friends, the Grey Wardens promise you this victory! _I_ promise you this victory! We shall shortly have a famous victory over our enemies!" She drew her family sword. "Today we save Denerim! Today we avenge the death of King Cailan and of all the Grey Wardens who fell at Ostagar! And know that today the Blight will end, for the Grey Wardens stand with you!" She held her sword aloft. "For Ferelden!" she shouted.

The roar that answered astounded her. "For the Grey Wardens!" the army cried before exploding in a resounding cheer.

Myranda felt an intense pride fill her soul and heart and a smile tugged at her lips. This was her army, and they would gladly die for her and her cause—she knew that now. She looked over at Alistair and Riordan, and it was difficult to say which looked more proud.

"I feel glad I'm not part of that horde," Anora said, walking up behind her, a smile in her voice. "I am also glad you did not make the decision to make Alistair king and become queen yourself, though the men of Ferelden will lose a great speaker."

Myranda looked over at the queen, her features once again set behind an emotionless façade. "You will remain here." It was not a question.

"I shall... Eamon has insisted upon it. Though I would much rather go to battle with you to take back my city."

"No," Myranda said. "Ferelden cannot lose its queen now. There would be chaos."

The slightest hint of a smile touched Anora's lips. "And, despite your efforts, Alistair would be forced to take the throne," she murmured.

"A fate I should like to avoid."

"Very well." She held out her hand. "I wish you luck, Myranda. May the Maker watch over you."

A hint of a smile touched Myranda's lips. "Thank you, Anora," she said, taking the queen's soft hand in her own callused one. She turned to Riordan and Alistair then. "Let's move out."

 

 

The resistance outside the city was stiffer than any anticipated. Riordan had headed the charge, but since then Myranda had lost track of him. There were darkspawn everywhere, more than she had ever seen or wanted to see. As with the battle of Ostagar nearly a year before, she switched back and forth between her blades and her bow, trusting Morrigan, Wynne and Leliana to watch her back.

When the area around the gate was cleared except for a few straggling darkspawn that the rest of the army was working on taking down, Myranda looked up to see Riordan jogging toward them.

"You've managed to fight your way to the gates," he said. "Good. We're doing better than I hoped."

"That will change quickly," Sten said.

"I tend to agree," Myranda added. "I wish my confidence was as high as yours, Riordan."

"Bloody nug runners!" Oghren swore. "We're outnumbered three to one!"

Wynne spoke then as she walked over with Leliana and Morrigan. "What are we to do now, Riordan? You have a plan, I assume?"

"The army will not last long," Riordan said, "so we'll need to move quickly to reach the archdemon. I suggest taking Alistair and no more than two others with you into the city. Anyone you don't bring with you can remain here to prevent more darkspawn from entering Denerim on our tails."

Myranda stared at him. "You're not coming with us?"

"I need to go in separately," he told her. "If we're together, the archdemon will sense us before we're ready."

The blonde nodded, accepting this logic. "We can sense them, they can sense us."

The Senior Warden nodded. "We're going to need to reach a high point in the city... I'm thinking the top of Fort Drakon might work."

"The top of...?" Alistair started to repeat, shock causing his voice to trail off. "You _want_ to draw the dragon's attention?"

"We have little choice," Riordan told him, "though I warn you that as soon as we engage the beast it will call all its generals to help it." He looked over his shoulder at the city. "I can sense two generals in Denerim. You may wish to seek them out before going to Fort Drakon."

"I'm sure that if we did slay those generals, it would stop the darkspawn in the city from doing a lot of harm," Leliana said.

"Perhaps," Riordan said. "It may also waste resources trying to find them." He looked at Myranda. "The decision is up to you."

"You can sense the generals better than Alistair or I," Myranda said. "Do you know where they are?"

The Orlesian Warden shook his head again. "Neither of them are near Fort Drakon currently, but there are too many darkspawn here to tell you more." He looked at Myranda again. "There are already several units of our allies within the city by now. They may be able to come to your assistance if you call them, but their strength will be limited."

"I know the strength of my army," she said. "But I understand."

Riordan looked at her for a long moment before putting a heavy hand on her shoulder. "Nothing you have done has prepared you for what you face now. May the Maker watch over you."

"And you, Riordan," she said. "I will see you at Fort Drakon."

The group watched the older Warden walk into the city before all eyes turned to the blonde woman. Myranda sighed. She had known this would happen: even if Riordan hadn't suggested it, she had planned on only taking some of her companions into the darkspawn-overrun city. "Wynne," she said, turning to the elder mage.

Wynne smiled, seeing what the younger woman intended reflected in her emerald eyes. "So this is it then," she said. "All that we've been through has led up to this." She smiled gently at Myranda. "Whatever happens now... to either of us... know that I am proud—infinitely proud—to have called you friend."

Myranda put her hand on the mage's shoulder, not resisting when she was pulled into a maternal hug.

"Farewell," Wynne said, standing away from her again, "and may the Maker watch over you."

"Thank you, Wynne." She looked over at Leliana. "I want you to stay as well, Leliana."

Leliana's bright blue eyes widened before a dismayed look crossed her face. "Very well," she said. "If you think that's best."

"I want you to stay as ranged support for the gate."

The redhead nodded. "So, this is it... this is the end. We've come so far. It's strange knowing that all our fates will be decided in a matter of hours." She sighed softly. "I wish I could go with you."

"It's for the best," Myranda assured her.

"I respect your decision to keep me here, even though I would have gladly stood by your side, even to the death."

"I know. Thank you."

"You have been a true friend and I..." a look of frustration crossed her face as her bright blue eyes started to well with tears, "I will be extremely cross with you if you... don't return."

Myranda smiled a little, willing her own eyes not to tear up as well. "I don't plan on dying, or facing the wrath of Leliana."

A corner of the bard's mouth lifted before she hugged Myranda suddenly. The blonde was surprised by this move, but smiled and returned the tight hug. "Take care of... of everyone here."

"I will." She pulled away a couple moments later to kiss the Grey Warden's cheeks. "Be careful out there. I will see you soon."

Myranda nodded and looked over at Oghren. "And Oghren? I'm counting on you to look after them."

The dwarf nodded and laughed a little. "Aye, I'll do it." He looked up at her. "This is it, Warden. 'When from the blood of battle the Stone has fed, let the heroes prevail and the blighters lie dead.'" He scoffed slightly. "As one of the blighters, I sodding salute you."

Myranda felt herself smile slightly. "Thank you, Oghren."

He chuckled menacingly. "Let's show them our hearts and then show them theirs."

"Indeed." She glanced at her sister. "Morrigan, with me."

"Indeed."

She nodded and looked at Sten. "There will be much honor in this battle," she said to the qunari.

"I will fight beside you, kadan. You are a soldier worthy to stand among the Beresaad, and I shall help you end this Blight."

Myranda smiled slightly and bowed her head a little. She looked over at Zevran and nodded before looking up at the city gates. "Alistair."

"Yes."

"I want you to stay here."

" _What_?!"

"Stay here with the others and guard the gate."

"No! I'm coming with you!"

Myranda squeezed her eyes shut. "I want you to stay here," she repeated, surprised how calm her voice sounded despite how her heart was breaking into a million pieces. "Stay here so that the darkspawn can't flank us. You'll be able to sense them when they approach... no one else can."

Zevran watched as she valiantly tried to keep her composure, seeing the single tear that escaped from beneath one eyelid and slipped down her cheek. She had tried to rehearse for this the night before, but no amount of practice could have prepared her.

"And if... if something should happen to me... you can..."

"Don't talk like that!" Alistair cut her off.

She stopped, standing as if waiting for a final, killing blow.

"What about... what about that ritual in Redcliffe?" he demanded. "Was that just a _joke_ to you? A scheme between you and Morrigan?"

Zevran watched Myranda wince at this attack. Her spine visibly straightened further as the tears started to fall steadily.

"The ritual was necessary," she said. "But I still want you to stay here in reserve."

"I'm coming with you," Alistair said firmly. "I won't let you leave me behind." She turned and looked at him then and he was shocked to see tears streaming freely down her cheeks. She looked completely miserable, as if her heart was being slowly and tortuously ripped from her chest.

"You could still die in the battle," she said, her voice breaking. "And I... I couldn't bear that. Not after I've lost everyone else that I love." She took his hand. "Please," she begged. "Don't ask me to watch you die."

He was undone by this plea. Forgetting the army around them, he pulled her to him, holding her tightly as he leaned down to kiss her hard.

Myranda returned the kiss with all the passion she possessed, knowing it may be the last.

Zevran watched. There was no cheering, no whistles, only a somber silence hanging in the air. Everyone present knew the kiss was a goodbye.

When the two Grey Wardens pulled out of their kiss, they still held onto each other, hugging each other tightly.

"I want you to lead the party here at the gate," Myranda whispered into his ear.

"I'd rather be going after the archdemon... but all right."

"I'm not going to risk you getting hurt, Alistair."

"And you think I want you going in there and fighting that thing without me?" he whispered harshly, his arms tightening around her. "Ritual or no ritual, that's a dragon!" He looked at her and sighed. "But there's no use in arguing about it, is there." It wasn't truly a question. "We don't have time and..." he shook his head a little. "You are a stubborn, stubborn woman, Myranda."

She convinced one corner of her mouth to lift in a smirk. "That I am."

"Well at least you're honest about it." He lifted his hand to run the backs of his fingers along her cheek. "I guess this is the last chance we'll get... before this is finished, one way or another."

She stared deeply into his eyes, willing herself not to start crying again. "I love you, Alistair."

"And I love you," he said softly before adding in a whisper, "always."

She kissed him again for a few too-short moments before pulling away gently and regretfully.

"Be careful in there," he whispered. "And come back to me."

She tried to smile at him, though the attempt failed for the most part. "I don't die easily."

He ran his eyes over her face, looking at her as if he fully expected to never see her again. "May the Maker watch over you."

"And you, my love."

They stood, hovering on the edge of another kiss before Myranda moved away, holding onto his hand as she stepped back until the distance became too great and the contact was broken. They stared at each other for a moment until tears again flooded Myranda's eyes and she had to turn away.

"Come, kadan," Sten said, placing a hand on her shoulder. "The enemy waits. Shall we grant him the death he asks of us?"

Her features hardened. "It's only fair," she said, her sarcasm colored with malice as she wiped away a stray tear.

"Then let us bring this gift to the archdemon," the qunari said. "We will take the field. And stand together to see our enemy fall."

She nodded and started toward the city gates, whistling sharply. Baby barked excitedly and loped after his mistress. "Zevran," she called, pulling her bow off her shoulder.

Alistair grabbed the elf by the arm as he started to pass by. "Look out for her," he said. "Don't let anything happen to her. Don't let her..." The last word got caught in the lump in his throat.

Zevran smiled a little. "She shall come to no harm," he promised. "I shall watch her as best I can. I give you my oath... as a man who also loves her."

Alistair released his arm and nodded.

The elf smirked and held out his hand. "We shall see you after the battle, my friend."

Alistair hesitated for only a moment before taking the other man's hand and shaking it, trying without success to convince himself to return the smirk.

Zevran bowed his head, as he had done when he had sworn his oath of loyalty to Myranda so many months before, and turned to catch up to the other Grey Warden. "So now we head into the city together to face the archdemon, hmm?" he asked her.

Myranda nodded.

"Good. I was nearly afraid you were about to march inside without me. We cannot have that!" He saw the smile that tugged at the corner of her mouth only because he was looking for it. "Let us go and teach this dragon a lesson, yes? It should have stayed in whatever hole it crawled out of."

"I agree." She looked over at Morrigan, who drew even with her on her left side.

"So we head into the city together," the witch said. "As it should be."

"As it should be," the blonde agreed.

"Once this is done, no matter how it turns out, I will be gone. You are aware of this, yes?"

Myranda stopped and faced her squarely. "Then let me thank you now, Sister, for what you've done."

Morrigan stared at her in shock at this heartfelt thanks. Funny how unaccustomed to it she still was. "You... are most welcome. It is, I think, the very least I could offer you." She sighed and lowered her eyes. "Allow me to say only one thing before we go," she said softly. She composed herself and lifted her golden eyes to Myranda's emerald. "I knew nothing of friendship before we met. And I will always consider you such."

"And I, you. I owe you a life."

Morrigan smiled a little, though sadly. Then, slowly and hesitantly, she reached out and took Myranda's hand. "Live well, my friend," she said, a sparkle of tears in her eyes. "Live gloriously."

Myranda smiled and wrapped her fingers around Morrigan's hand. The touch alone was a great concession and a moving gesture. It took only a few moments before the witch pulled her hand free again.

"Now let us see this finally done," she said, sounding impatient. "The archdemon awaits."

"That it does." She waved for the other woman to precede her, following her friends toward the open doors of the city. She paused at the gate, laying her hand on the side of the passage before looking back at Alistair. He lifted his hand to his chest where his heart lay and nodded his head slightly at her. She managed a small smile, raising her right fist to her heart and bowing her head before turning back and heading into the city.

Alistair watched until she disappeared into the smoke, then lowered his head and turned away. It was all he could think to do to hide the tears in his eyes.


	48. Myranda's Last Battle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Blight ends... but at a price.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All borrowed fighters are copyright their respective owners: on deviantART Lady-of-the-Evening (agent-merlot on tumblr), temerice, vocepoetica, maya-yungsito, qweenseeker, dagirl4ever, svenskalovenska, wazubababi, agarhel, ThePhoenixofzoranian, and, of course, aimo--thanks for letting me use them!!!

**Chapter 48: Myranda's Last Battle**

_"Let the blade pass through the flesh, Let my blood touch the ground, Let my cries touch their hearts. Let mine be the last sacrifice." ~Canticle of Andraste 7:12_

 

Inside the city, Myranda was shocked at how many darkspawn there were. The Market District was crawling with them, but the army, slowly, pushed them back. She was also able to appreciate the skills of some of its members—especially Caeda and her healers, who fortunately seemed to be everywhere though there were in truth only six of them. She stuck to her bow, keeping further away to ensure she made it to Fort Drakon and backing up Lanaya's Dalish and the other human archers. One of these latter, a young woman—part of the Royal Army by her uniform—with short, dark hair and the build of a warrior but brandishing a bow, proved she had great skill as she and Myranda loosed arrows at a charging ogre at the same time; Myranda's went into one eye, the brunette's into the other. Myranda looked over at her as the ogre stopped, roaring with pain, and smirked, obviously impressed. "Nicely done, Private."

The girl looked over at her and her bright blue eyes lit up. "Thank you, Commander!" she said with the excitement of an enthusiastic admirer.

After the Market was mostly clear, Myranda called for her army to push forward except for detachments of Redcliffe and Rainsfere soldiers and Waking Sea's archers. "Moneca, I'm leaving you and Teagan in command here."

"Let me go with you, Myri," Moneca said.

"No, stay with Teagan and watch our flank. "I'm counting on you." She put a hand on her friend's shoulder. "These creatures come up out of the ground. You've seen: they are horrifying. Be ready for anything and watch for their blood—it's toxic." She managed a small smile. "I don't want to explain your death to Soren."

Moneca pulled the blonde into a tight hug, which was returned, before giving her a parting kiss on the cheek. "Be careful, Myri," she said.

Myranda nodded before heading toward the Palace District, sending the dwarves, Arl Eamon, and Irving one way and calling Lanaya and Caeda to her. Passing the Alienage, a sudden noise caused the Grey Warden and her party to look toward the gate. "Maker's blood... there are elves still in the Alienage!" she exclaimed.

Zevran rushed by her and tried the door. " _Braska_! The door is locked!"

A scream hardened Myranda's resolve. She looked at Morrigan. "Break it down," she ordered. "Now. I don't care how."

Lanaya spoke then. "There is another way," she began.

"Then do it!" Myranda shouted, cutting her off. "And do it now!"

Lanaya held her hand out to the door and spoke a few words in a language Myranda could only assume was Dalish. The wooden gate screeched before parting, bending as if the wood was green and fresh and leaving a hole large enough for the army.

Myranda blinked. "Impressive."

Baby barked in agreement.

"Keeper magic," Lanaya said.

The Grey Warden nodded. "Let's go."

They hurried inside to see three elves racing toward them: Shianni, the young man Soris that Myranda had freed from the Arl of Denerim's dungeons, and Adrian. The former two had makeshift bows in their hands, while the latter had a battered sword and a small wooden shield.

Shianni skidded to a halt when she saw them. "Y-you!" she cried. "It's you!" She laughed once, and, to her credit, it only sounded half-hysterical. "The Maker sure gave you the gift of good timing, didn't He?"

"Sometimes," Myranda said flatly.

"There's a large group of darkspawn approaching and the gates won't hold. We need your help!"

"Fight with me," she ordered.

Soris blinked. "Fight?" he repeated his voice trailing up to a squeak. "B-but we have no armor, and only simple weapons! We'll be slaughtered!"

Myranda's short temper frayed. "This is your home! Will you do nothing to protect your families? Those who _cannot_ run!?"

"She's right," Adrian said. "We have to do something!"

Shianni looked down casting her eyes back and forth once, twice, three times in quick thought before she lifted them again and nodded up at Myranda. "Yes, if we can hold them back, it'll give others a chance to escape." Her spine straightened. "Tell us what to do, and we'll fight for as long as we can."

"Defend the gate," Myranda ordered, pointing back the way Shianni and her friends had come. "Lanaya, arrange your archers on the high ground. Caeda, your healers in the back—Morrigan, with the battle mages in the middle. Sten and Zevran, lead the warriors at the front of the gate, though hopefully that won't be necessary. Whatever you do, keep them from getting through!"

Shianni looked at her friends. "You heard what the lady said! Come on!"

The half army, bolstered a little by the city elves, arranged themselves quickly in front of the gate and on the barricades that had been erected. The four battle mages, including Morrigan, had positioned themselves on the lower parts of the barricades while Caeda and the two healers with her were searching the nearby houses and helping the elderly get to safety.

The darkspawn roared at the gate, genlocks shooting arrows over it toward the defenders, who returned fire. It looked like the wall would hold—the darkspawn were falling at a faster rate than the defenders and Myranda was just starting to feel good about it until one hurlock that was larger than the others strode forward. She could sense him over the others, so that it had to one of the generals that Riordan had mentioned. It seemed to look right at her— _did_ look right at her—and she felt a cold chill creep up her spine. "Take out the General!" she shouted to the archers, pointing at the huge darkspawn. "Take him down," she told the mage standing next to her: a young elven woman with shoulder-length black hair that had been pulled back into a messy ponytail. "He'll be the most difficult."

The girl turned her jade green eyes to the Grey Warden, and Myranda was a little surprised at the pure white streak that shot through the ebony hair just behind the girl's pointed right ear. "More than the ogre?" she asked.

Myranda blinked and looked again beyond the wall to see the ogre that was being directed toward it. "Oh, shit," she swore.

"That's one way to put it."

The blonde looked toward the other side of the barricade. "Lanaya!" she shouted. "Take out the ogre! Sten! Zevran! Be ready, they might come through!"

The wall shook as the ogre rammed it, causing the elves and humans below them to shift uneasily. Arrows and magic flew down toward the ogre and the darkspawn general, but neither was taken down before the wall, though the ogre fell to a fireball summoned by a human mage with long, snow white hair. Sten almost immediately engaged the general, and the two were almost matched in skill. One of the Alienage elves, a young man with brown hair that was past his shoulders and bright blue eyes accented by the dark tattoos surrounding them that spread along his cheekbones like the wings of a strange bird, was brandishing a two-handed sword almost taller than he was and looking surprisingly comfortable with it. When he took out five hurlocks with one mighty swing, a grin broke out on his face, pushing back his bangs to reveal more, smaller tattoos on his forehead. "Andraste's tits, did anyone see that?" he asked. "I am squirting machismo out of my nipples over here! Ow!" This last was when he was smacked by the girl that Myranda and her friends had saved from the Tevinter slavers, Avengia.

"Pay attention!" she yelled, taking a limping stride past him and slicing through a genlock with one of the two swords she carried.

Myranda would have laughed if she hadn't been so caught up in the battle.

"Merida!" Caeda called, causing the black-haired mage next to Myranda to whip her head around, nearly sending her ice bolt into the other barricade. "We need you down here!"

"Coming!" she called back before scurrying down the barricade toward the tiny blonde mage.

Myranda pulled back on her bowstring, aiming carefully before letting fly into one of the hurlock alphas. Shortly after her shot hit, another arrow, fired from her left, thudded into the alpha's chest. She looked over at Shianni. "Nice shot."

"Thanks." She grinned. "I'm better with something I can throw."

"She crowned Bann Vaughan with a bottle," Soris called.

"I'd love another shot at him, in fact," Shianni said, ruthlessly loosing another arrow.

"You won't get the chance," Myranda told her. "I had him killed."

Shianni looked at her. "You know something, Commander, the more I talk to you, the more I like you." She shot another arrow. "I just wish it had been an elf."

"It was. The elf that was with me when I arrived."

"The good-looking one?"

"That's the one."

Shianni grinned as she fired again. "Is he married?"

"Shianni!" Soris cried.

Myranda only chuckled.

The rest of the battle went quickly, and Myranda climbed quickly down from the barricade, wading into the midst of the warriors. "All right!" she cried. "We have to head toward the palace! Lanaya! Leave a few of your archers to help hold this wall." She looked at the young red-haired elf. "I'm leaving you in charge, Shianni."

Shianni straightened her spine. "We've held them off this long. They won't get through."

Myranda nodded. "The rest of you with me!"

"My lady!"

The Grey Warden turned to see Adrian rushing up to her. He looked no worse for wear from the battle, except for the large gouges in his shield.

"Allow me to accompany you," he said.

She shook her head. "Stay here and protect your family."

"Please, Commander, if I can help you fight these bastards back, I will be of more use."

Bright green eyes stared hard into pale blue for several long moments before she finally nodded once. "Get yourself a proper sword and shield," she ordered, turning away.

The young elf saluted her sharply. "Yes, Commander."

She sent the others across the bridge toward the Palace District as she waited for the young elf, one brow quirking up fractionally when she noticed his excellent taste in weapons: he moved straight to the Hurlock Alpha that had been with the pack and salvaged his sword and shield. She also noticed with some interest how Avengia rushed over to him and, after a quick exchange of words, leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. She smirked as Adrian stumbled back toward her. "You ok?"

"Oh... uh... yeah... sure." He passed by her across the bridge toward the Palace District.

"Myranda."

Myranda turned to see Zevran carrying a small elf child with white hair and a pair of tattoos around his right eye that were eerily similar to the assassin's. "Who's that?"

"I found him... after following a darkspawn into what I could only describe as a meadow between two of the buildings."

The Grey Warden's eyebrows shot up. "A meadow? In this place?"

"Precisely. He was hiding under a bush... with about ten dead darkspawn around him." He didn't seem particularly disturbed at this last statement as he just grinned at the boy. "He has eyes like jade."

The child smiled back at him.

The Grey Warden woman lifted an eyebrow. "Zev? The battle?"

"Yes, yes, of course." He handed the child to a short, thin elf woman with pulled back reddish-brown hair, moss green eyes and tanned skin. "Could you take this little prince for me?"

"Of... course," she said, slightly flustered, sheathing her two bloody daggers to take the child.

"Thank you." He grinned and ruffled the boy's snow white hair, chuckling softly as the child frowned and reached for him, taking his smaller hand in his. "Adorable."

"I'm sure you can adopt him later," Myranda said, pulling him away from the child and pushing him toward the gate. She looked back up at Shianni. "Good luck, Shianni!" she said with a salute.

"Thank you, Commander!"

Myranda grinned and saluted again before heading out of the Alienage. She had barely started across the bridge toward the Palace District when a deafening roar startled her. She looked up and saw the archdemon arcing over the city, turning back toward them. "Oh, shit," she swore before running across the bridge. "Go!" she yelled to those loitering near the end. "Go, go, _go_!"

She managed to race across the midpoint when the bridge seemed to explode behind her, knocking her forward. She slammed into Zevran as she fell, sending them both to the ground.

"I suppose I should enjoy this while I can," the elf said, smirking at her. "No doubt the end of the battle will send you running back into the arms of your Alistair."

"If I survive the battle," she murmured.

"Ah, tut, tut, my dear. Even at the worst times there is always a one percent chance things will turn out."

She looked at him. "One percent still isn't very much," she noted.

"But as soon as you give up, that one percent becomes zero percent. Besides," he said with a grin, "I am an eternal optimist!"

She smiled a little as she stood. "Thank you." She looked around at the small detachment around her. "Is everyone all right?" She continued to look around, quickly noticing the absence of one important member of her party. "Baby? Where's Baby?!"

She heard the barking first. The smoke slowly cleared, revealing the bridge to be completely demolished, and the mabari trapped on the other side.

"We cannot wait for him," Sten said.

Myranda cupped her hands around her mouth. "Baby!" she called. "Go back to the gate and stay with Alistair!"

Baby craned his neck toward her.

"No! Go back to the gate! Be a good boy, now, and go take care of Alistair. And don't worry... I'll be fine!"

The mabari barked before turning and galloping back toward the gate.

"I didn't just lie to my dog, did I?"

"Certainly not," Zevran assured her. "As I say: one percent is better than none at all."

 

 

Alistair ran the back of his wrist across his forehead to wipe away the sweat. Darkspawn had been pouring out of the city, and he found it hard to believe anyone was still alive in there. Except Myranda... of course she was all right. She had to be all right. She _had_ to be! He looked up as the scout near the wall raised an alarm.

"Mabari incoming!"

"Mabari?" Leliana said. "Do darkspawn have mabari now?"

"No, wait," Wynne said. "That's Baby!"

"Baby?" Alistair knelt as the familiar animal ran up to him, barking. "Where's Myranda? Is she all right?"

Baby barked, panting good-naturedly.

"I'm sure she's just fine, Alistair," Wynne said soothingly, placing her hand gently on his shoulder. "Mabari generally don't take the death of their masters very well. If something had happened to her, Baby wouldn't be here."

The dog barked as if in agreement.

Alistair sighed heavily. "You're probably right," he said. "Still, something must have happened if he's here without her."

 

 

As Myranda and her segment of the army reached the Palace District, they found it was in chaos. The darkspawn were more numerous in this district, and the half army was in dire straits. One of the human fighters, a young woman with dark brown hair with a pair of Orlesian braids that started just above her ears and wrapped toward the back of her head, turned her light green eyes toward them.

"Commander!" she called before returning her attention to the hurlock she was fighting.

Myranda's eyes swept over the battlefield quickly. "Let's go," she ordered, waving her melee fighters forward while keeping the archers back with her.

"Nice of you to join us, Commander," a dark-skinned young man with short, black hair, a strong jaw and high cheekbones said sarcastically as he hurled a large fireball into the middle of a group of darkspawn.

"Well, I couldn't let you have all the fun."

"Oh yeah," he went on, the acid in his voice becoming lethal, "we've been having a _great_ time. We were making fucking _daisy chains_ until you showed up."

Myranda glanced at him, lifting her bow and shooting an arrow inches in front the bridge of his straight nose and into the hurlock that was running toward them. "Oops," she said with a saccharine sweet smile, shouldering her bow and drawing her daggers before rushing into the battle. "Kardol," she called as she came across the Legion commander. "How are things?"

"They'll get better now that you're here," he said before swinging his axe into a charging genlock.

Myranda cut down two hurlocks and a genlock that had been bearing down on her. "We got caught in the Alienage. When the humans evacuated, apparently they forgot to unlock the gate and left the elves to die."

Kardol snorted and muttered something too softly for Myranda to hear.

Myranda cut through the waves of hurlocks until she felt safe switching back to her bow. She shouted orders as she worked through the battle, at one point noticing that she was in competition vocally with another female voice. When she looked, she found it was the dwarf woman who had flirted with Alistair in Orzammar—whose name, she had overheard on the march, was Sorsha. She was shouting orders at one of her underlings: another dwarf that had light cocoa-colored skin, shaggy, shoulder-length brown hair, and a brand on her cheek. When this second woman shot back with a stubbornly sarcastic comment, it only took one hard look before the brunette scurried away with a quick "Yes, my lady."

Myranda shot an arrow into the wrist of the genlock that was getting ready to attack the lovely dwarf woman before trotting over. "I don't imagine many try to cross you in the Proving ring or the Assembly Hall, my lady."

Sorsha looked up at her and smirked. "The smart ones don't."

"The smart ones here won't, either," she said. "I'm leaving you in charge of this sector."

The dwarf woman grinned and saluted with one of her daggers. "Of course."

Myranda smirked and nodded at her before waving her bow over her head. "Sten, Zevran, Morrigan! Irving, Lanaya, Eamon, Kardol! The rest of you! To Fort Drakon!"

The rest of the army rallied and followed her to the fortress, the gate to which had to be broken down.

As they burst into the entry, the group paused, as the room was filled with the corpses of dead darkspawn. Myranda looked around before telling the army to stay on guard and leading the way forward. Though they were ready for an ambush at every corner, all the darkspawn they found were dead. The only living soul they came across, shockingly, was Bodahn's son, Sandal.

"Sandal?!" Myranda said, rushing toward the dwarf boy. "What are you doing here? What happened to all these darkspawn?"

Sandal blinked up at her. "Enchantment."

"Did... _you_ do this?"

The boy's bright blue eyes sparkled. "Enchantment!" he cried.

Myranda looked at Zevran, then Sten, then Morrigan. "Is that possible?"

"Many things about this boy are uncertain," Morrigan said. "And certainly, let us discuss it at this moment," she added sarcastically.

"You're right." The Grey Warden looked back at the dwarf. "Did you see Riordan go by?" She paused uncertainly. "You... remember Riordan, yes?"

"Upstairs," Sandal assured her, pointing up toward the ceiling.

Myranda looked up before putting her hand on Sandal's shoulders. "Thank you. Try to get back to your father now... and be careful."

"Good luck, kind lady," his voice called after her as she raced up the stairs.

 

 

The group thundered up the stairs, killing what darkspawn were left in the tower before bursting onto the rooftop. The army swarmed around Myranda as she stopped suddenly, staring up at the monster in the sky. Slowly, the blonde woman stepped forward to stand by the man who had preceded them. "Riordan?"

"He's here," the Senior Warden said.

"Is there a strategy?"

"The records say that the archdemon has some very powerful attacks, including massive attacks from the side, a cleaving attack from its claws in the front, and a tail sweep from the back."

"And it breathes fire."

Riordan nodded. "Among several other long range attacks." He looked over at her. "It will also summon darkspawn reinforcements, of course."

Myranda looked up at the archdemon. "Right." She trotted back to the army motioning to the heads of the sections of the army and her companions. She explained the attacks they would expect before turning to each of them. "Eamon, keep an eye on your warriors. Follow Riordan's orders. Sten, Zevran... please be careful."

Though Sten only grunted, Zevran gave her a small smile.

"Kardol, your dwarves will hold off any darkspawn reinforcements. Caeda, tell your healers to keep up with their mana—do not use it unless absolutely necessary. Morrigan, Lanaya, you will help me provide range support." She looked up at the deafening roar that accompanied the high breeze that whipped around them. "Positions!" she ordered. "Go!"

The army scattered: melee fighters toward the perceived landing site, the mages toward the middle—battle mages closer and healers further away, and Lanaya's archers lined up between their Keeper and the Grey Warden woman.

"Steady..." Myranda ordered as the archdemon flew toward them, raising her arm in front of the pale elven archer next to her, ignoring how the girl's blue eyes looked over at her fearfully. "Easy," she said to the young blonde next to her.

The girl's blue eyes glanced at her again before she seemed to visibly pull herself together, lifting a hand to push her bangs out of her eyes, her hand still shaking a little.

"Easy," Myranda murmured before lifting her hand. "Archers! Mages! Aim for the wings! Sten!" she shouted over the roaring wind. "Have your unit ready to help bring it down!"

The archdemon landed with a thundering crash, trying to crush the warriors huddled below it. Almost immediately, a rain of arrows flew through the air towards it, loosed on Myranda's command, followed by a peppering of fireballs and lightning bolts. The monster roared and spread its wings to take off again, only to provide a better target for arrows and magic, which ripped through the wing membranes as if they were made of parchment. It thudded back down the two feet it had managed to gain, roaring its fury, snapping its jaws at those who were unfortunate enough to be close by. It did manage to chomp up two of the warriors, and Myranda could only hope it wasn't Eamon, Kardol or, most of all, Riordan.

The battle was long and arduous, dragging on for hours as the army chipped away at the monster. Darkspawn swarmed up the stairs, but none of them reached the archers' and mages' lines, thanks to Kardol's Legion. The archers never ran out of arrows, thanks to four or five of Lanaya's elves who pilfered from dead genlocks. One of Caeda's healers was also dispatched to the archers' line, healing any wounds they garnered from attacking darkspawn and helping bolster their stamina. Finally, Myranda sensed the archdemon's strength flagging. It was fighting more vehemently for its life, but its death was imminent. The time had come. She ordered the line to stay and rushed forward, still shooting arrows until she got within earshot of the group around the dragon's feet. "Riordan!"

But the Senior Warden had already sensed it. He rushed toward the monster, jumping onto it before climbing up toward its head. Myranda lowered her bow and the rest of the fighters—those that could—seemed to stop as well as they watched his ascent. Once he drove in his sword, it would be over. The archdemon would die, and the Blight would be over. He was close... so very close. Just a few more feet and Riordan would kill the beast.

And then, his footing slipped. Somebody screamed—Myranda thought it was her. The archdemon shook its head as if to drive away a troublesome insect, and the Senior Warden went flying through the air.

Myranda watched in horror as Riordan fell to the stones, landing with a sickening thud. She saw Caeda run to the body, but didn't need her verbal confirmation of what she already knew. She stared at the body for a moment, sheer terror gripping her, before her mind cleared. She looked up at the archdemon, knowing in an instant what had to be done. "Zevran!" she yelled, tossing away her bow.

The elf turned at the shout to see Myranda shrugging off her quiver.

"I'm going to need a little help with the mount!"

He grinned. "It is my specialty, so they tell me!"

She smirked and took off toward him, drawing her knife. In a move that was so fluid it looked rehearsed, she leapt up at the last minute, landing with the toe of her boot in his interlocked hands before he launched her into the air towards the archdemon.

Her foot landed on what was the monster's elbow and she quickly started to pull herself upward. She used any arrows that had managed to puncture the hide as additional footholds, trying not to grab the razor-sharp edges of its scales more than necessary. One of the arrows broke under her foot and, unable to grab hold of the one above her, she started to fall. She screamed for a moment before regaining her senses and plunging her knife into the creature's side to stop her fall. It sliced through the muscle for about a foot, drenching her with the black, foul-smelling blood before she finally managed to climb her way back up, using the hilt of the knife as a foothold.

She climbed up onto the dragon's back before using the spikes that grew along its spine like a ladder to reach the head. She had no room to draw her sword, so it would have to be the long-bladed dagger. She knelt on the top of the head, pulling her dagger and preparing to strike.

Obviously feeling her presence and sensing what she was about to do, the dragon started to thrash its head from side to side, trying to dislodge her. The dagger fell from Myranda's hand and she grasped one of the horns tightly. "No!" she screamed. "You will die! And I dare you to try to take me with you!"

"Kadan!"

Myranda looked up, catching the dagger Sten tossed up to her. She looked at the pommel of the long, beautiful weapon—at the rose that had been worked into the bright red gemstone. She kissed it softly and quickly, sending one last thought to Alistair before plunging the curved blade into the archdemon's head with all her might. She closed her eyes and winced as the creature roared in agony, clutching the hilt as the monster tossed its head from side to side, trying not to be thrown to her death. The violent motions only proved to work the blade deeper into the creature's skull.

Something strange happened to her then. An intense darkness, unlike anything she'd ever felt, washed over her, filling her heart and creeping into her soul. She felt dizzy and disoriented, her eyes rolling back as the dark soul of the archdemon swept into her. It whispered to her—what it said she couldn't quite make out—before it suddenly left her. She blinked and opened her eyes in time to see Morrigan shift into a large mabari and run from the top of the tower before, after a few agonizingly long moments, the archdemon stiffened and collapsed.

Myranda fought back her scream as the creature's head plummeted to the rooftop, the sound escaping in the final moments when she was thrown from her perch by the impact. She tumbled through the air before landing on her back, silenced by her head cracking hard against the stones.


	49. A New Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter of Shifting Paradigms: The Definition of Nobility, in which Myranda becomes a Hero.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed it!

**Chapter 49: A New Day**

_"A hero is no braver than an ordinary man, but he is brave five minutes longer." ~Ralph Waldo Emerson_

 

Alistair ran toward Fort Drakon. He'd known the minute the blade had been driven into the archdemon's skull, and his near-frantic worry about Myranda had sent him sprinting into the city, despite the shouts from Wynne and Leliana. The bolt of light that had shot into the sky and the ringed explosion that had rocked the top of the tower had not helped his nerves. Baby had followed and quickly overtaken him, and he followed the dog around the Alienage toward the Palace District. He saw why as he rushed across the bridge: the bridge to the Alienage had been completely destroyed.

He reached the base of the old fortress and skidded to a stop as a large figure slowly emerged from the shadows. It turned out to be Sten, looking alarmingly battle weary. In his arms he carried a blonde woman who was covered with blood and looked to all appearances to be dead. Her head lay tilted back, her eyes closed, her right arm dangling limply down toward the ground. His heart seized in his chest. "Myranda?" he breathed.

"She lives," Sten said gruffly, brushing past him.

Baby barked and trotted after the qunari.

"You should be very proud of her, my friend Alistair," Zevran said, walking up to stand next to him. "She fought bravely and well. The monster is dead, thanks to your Myranda."

Alistair looked over at the elf. "Riordan?"

"He was... not so lucky, I'm afraid. Thrown to his death just before the killing blow was delivered."

Suddenly a petite mage—an elf, Alistair thought—ran up to them as best she could with a slight limp in her right foot. As she got closer, however, the fact that her blonde hair was pulled into tails on either side of her head helped reveal that she was, in fact, human. She looked vaguely familiar, but Alistair found himself not caring.

"Which way did the qunari go?" she demanded. "He took the commander before I could finish healing her!"

"That way," Zevran said, pointing.

"Thank you!" she said before rushing off again. She had nearly disappeared when the two men felt a wash of healing energy.

Alistair turned back to the elf assassin. "She's alive?" For some reason the fact just wasn't sinking in like it should.

Zevran nodded. "And will remain so, if that little mage has anything to say about it."

Alistair felt suddenly exhausted, and nearly collapsed onto the stone courtyard. He was caught by the elf assassin and steered away from the fortress, following the path the mage had just taken.

"Come, see for yourself. You will feel more steady afterwards, I am certain."

 

*~*~*~*~*

 

There was nothing but darkness. She felt nothing, knew nothing. Only that she was cold—terribly cold. There was only one part of her, her left hand, that was inexplicably warm. Faces wandered in and out of her dreams: her parents, Oriana, Oren, Roland, Duncan, Riordan. She heard a constant low buzz of voices—muted as if they were heard through a wall. A name repeated a few times, but without recognition. Then, suddenly, one voice came to her in the darkness with increasing clarity... the same name and a phrase repeating over and over.

_"Myranda... don't leave me, Myranda... please don't leave me..."_

She oscillated for an eternity, listening to the vaguely familiar voice before she eventually began to swim up through the darkness toward it. The pain made her want to retreat, but it was important that she wake. Someone waiting for her... the owner of the voice. A man. Fergus? No, Fergus was dead. Who, then?

A memory of hazel eyes drifted back to her through the fog. Soft, warm hazel eyes, shining with an undeniable love and devotion. Strong arms, holding her lovingly and protectively against a firm body. A voice—the same voice she had been hearing in the icy darkness—admitting to love her and promising to protect her. A salty-sweet smell under the fragrance of roses. A taste... a taste as indescribable as it was wonderful, sweeter and more intoxicating than the finest wine.

Finally, she slowly opened her eyes to a stone room, blinking slowly at the canopy of pale blue fabric above her. Every muscle in her body ached and her head throbbed horribly. Where was she? How did she get this way? Her memory slowly pieced itself back together: killing the archdemon, Riordan falling to his death, fighting through the city overwhelmed with darkspawn, leaving Alistair at the city gates.

Alistair.

Panic gripped her. Was he all right? Where was he? Remembering the warmth around her left hand, she looked over without moving her head and smiled, relaxing instantly. It was amazing still how peaceful he looked when he was asleep. He was sitting in a chair that had been dragged to her bedside, leaning almost doubled over with his left arm on the bed and his head resting on his arm. He was ill-shaven and even in the dimness of the room looked grey and exhausted, a worried line crossing his brow even as he slept. His right hand lay gently over her left. She moved to interlace their fingers and he started awake, staring at her for a moment before the worry left his face and a smile tugged at his lips, a ragged breath of relief escaping him. The pure joy on his face made her heart sing within her.

"Alistair," she mouthed, her voice failing her.

"You're awake! Oh, thank the Maker! No... no, don't try to talk. Everything's all right."

Her brow furrowed slightly at the sight of the sharp, clean line of a bandage at the collar of his shirt that had been hidden before. "You're hurt," she said in a harsh, hoarse whisper.

"It's nothing."

"How long..." The words were cut off as she coughed. "How long was I unconscious?"

"Long enough... though too long for me." He smiled gently and put a finger to her lips when she opened her mouth to speak again. "Don't talk, love, it's all right. Everyone's fine and the archdemon is dead." His smile widened a little. "They're calling you the Hero of Ferelden."

She kissed his fingertip softly before he drew it away, leaning into his touch as he ran his fingers over her cheek and watching as he moved to sit on the bed next to her.

"So... we made it," he said. "I'm impressed, aren't you?"

She smiled gently at him as he cupped her face in his hands and leaned toward her to rest his forehead against hers.

"I was so scared that I might lose you," he whispered. "But... here you are. And here I am." He grinned at her. "Not bad, right?"

She shook her head.

"I guess Morrigan was telling the truth after all. About the... ritual."

She looked at him. "Morrigan?" she whispered.

He frowned then. "Gone," he said flatly. "Like she promised. I'm told she vanished right after the battle. No good-byes or anything."

A noise at the window drew their attention then. A large crow had landed on the sill and was staring into the room. The bird looked from Myranda to Alistair and back, blinked its yellow eyes, and seemed to bow slightly before taking off again.

Myranda smiled and raised her right hand a little in a sort of wave. She knew it was the last time she would see her sister. She looked back at Alistair then and frowned. "Riordan," she whispered. "I'm so sorry, I... I couldn't..." her voice trailed off.

"It's all right," he assured her. "It's another loss, but I'm glad you weren't killed, too."

She smiled, lifting her hand shakily towards his face. He caught her hand and held it to his cheek as he looked at her before leaning over to kiss her softly.

Myranda closed her eyes, surrendering gladly to the kiss. She wanted nothing but to kiss him for the rest of eternity. He pulled away a few long moments later and she smiled up at him.

A throat cleared itself softly from the door then.

"I thought I told you to come get me when she woke."

Myranda looked over at the doorway to see a tiny blonde mage standing there, arms folded over her chest and a slight smile on her face. She vaguely remembered her from the battle... Caeda Amell, the young head of the healers. She looked back at Alistair to find the most hilarious look of terrified chagrin on his face.

"She's scary," he said softly, catching her questioning look. "Almost as scary as you."

She shot him a look which melted into a smile as he grinned teasingly at her. She held on to his hand as he started to move away, the contact only breaking when he moved out of reach. He stayed within her line of sight, however, watching the healer as she worked.

"I'm glad to see you awake, Commander," Caeda said as she walked to the bedside. "Her Majesty and the First Enchanter have asked me to see to you."

Myranda's brow furrowed. "Wynne?" she whispered.

"Wynne is quite well, and has been seeing to you as well. But she... needs her rest."

Myranda struggled to sit up, but Caeda put a hand on her shoulder.

"Don't exert yourself," the mage ordered. "Your injuries are quite serious, and I will not have you undoing all the work I put into you."

"Sorry," the Grey Warden whispered.

"No need to be sorry... unless you overexert yourself. I don't think some water would go amiss, however. Do you think you can drink?" Caeda poured a goblet of water to hold to Myranda's lips, helping her to drink.

The other blonde took a few large, grateful swallows of the cool, crisp water, the taste sweeter than honey to her parched throat. After the fourth, however, she pulled away with a cough. "Thank you," she said when she'd regained herself. "That's much better."

Caeda nodded.

"How long was I unconscious?"

"Nearly a week. We were getting a little worried, to be honest."

Myranda glanced at Alistair. No wonder he looked so unkempt. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

"No apologies needed, Commander," Caeda said. "Your injuries were quite severe, as I said. I'm glad you woke up today, however... otherwise we may have had to go into the Fade to find you." The tiny healer busied herself with Myranda's injuries, changing a dressing on the back of the human woman's skull that Myranda hadn't even noticed around the throbbing of her head as well as giving her part of a potion for the pain, leaving the rest on the table with orders for her to finish it before dusk. Then she turned to Alistair. "Let her rest now," she ordered.

"Of course."

"If I hear that you've let her exert herself in any way..."

"I won't! I swear!"

Myranda watched the little mage narrow her dark blue-green eyes at him before nodding once. It was a look she was familiar with, though she was generally the one giving it, and it made her smile. She liked this Caeda already.

"Either Wynne or I will be back to check on you in a few hours, Commander. Try to get some more sleep in the meantime."

"Thank you, Mistress Amell."

Caeda looked at Alistair again. "And I expect you to get some sleep as well, Captain," she said. "Running yourself into the ground will not help the Commander recover."

"But..."

"If you do not sleep, I will have your next meal drugged to ensure you do so."

"Alistair," Myranda murmured, cutting off his next retort. "You're exhausted. How long has it been since you slept?"

"Ten minutes." He watched as she gave him a look and sighed. "I don't remember."

"You need to rest, my love. Please... for me."

He looked at her for a moment before lowering his eyes and nodding.

Caeda nodded as well, satisfied with his acquiescence. "I'll have something more comfortable than that chair brought in," she said.

"Thank you," Myranda said before the other blonde woman turned away. She watched the mage leave before looking back at Alistair. "I don't suppose you could crawl into bed with me, 'Captain.'" She added the new title as a gentle tease.

"No, I can't. Caeda would kill me if she found out."

"What about 'your desire is my command'" she asked with a smile.

He smiled back at her. "It still is... you know that. I just don't want to be singed by mage fire... or turned into a frog." He watched her nose wrinkle in a silent giggle before she reached out her hand to him again. He took it and lifted it to his lips, kissing her fingers before moving to sit on the bed again.

Myranda closed her eyes and sighed. This was how it should be. This was the happy ending she'd longed for. She felt herself slipping back below a blanket of sleep and fought against it.

"Sleep, my love," Alistair said. "I'll still be here when you wake up."

She half-opened her eyes and smiled at him. "I love you," she whispered.

He returned her smile and leaned over to kiss her gently on the forehead. "And I love you," he murmured, stretching out on the bed next to her. "Now get some rest."

When Caeda peeked back into the room a few minutes later, both Wardens were snuggled next to each other on the bed, fast asleep.

 

 

The next six weeks passed with almost agonizing slowness. Myranda had a constant stream of visitors, mostly her companions, though Eamon, Irving, Teagan, and even Anora came by to see her as well. Bedridden though she was, she watched with no small amusement the way Zevran and Caeda started to notice each other.

She lifted an eyebrow at the elf when he almost swaggered into her room late one morning. "Well, _someone's_ in a good mood," she said with a smile.

"Ah, my dear, that little healer of yours is quite marvelous, you know."

"I do know... though probably not as well as _you_ do."

Zevran laughed. "She is quite a little minx... as I'm sure you would be."

Myranda shared the laugh. "You'll have to take Alistair's word for it."

"Ahh, yes... I shall have to remind him how lucky he is."

With the pressure of the Blight off her shoulders, she chatted easily with her companions, talking and laughing. And, nearly the entire time, Alistair was an almost constant presence by her side. He left her only briefly to collect and preserve the archdemon's blood. Caeda, who claimed to have a scholarly interest in the beast, went along. The young mage also received the dubious honor of being Myranda's first recruit and the first Fereldan Grey Warden created after the Blight.

Six weeks later, when Caeda released Myranda to get out of bed, Anora arranged for her coronation to take place. Myranda moved carefully around the room, leaning occasionally against Baby, getting used to being in her armor again. It was strange, but the fatigue slowly faded. She was just so happy to be out of bed. She turned at the knock on the door to her chamber. "Come in," she called. The door opened and her eyebrows shot up as a smile crossed her lips. "I see now why you remained a templar."

Baby barked appreciatively.

Alistair looked down at the uniform before grinning back at her. "I told you: I'm a sucker for good tailoring."

Myranda let her eyes wander leisurely over him. "And never before have I been more appreciative of that fact."

He chuckled softly. "All right, stop undressing me with your eyes."

"Would you rather I did so with my hands?" she asked innocently, wiggling her fingers at him. "I've found it's more effective that way."

He laughed and shook his head a little before changing the subject. "So you're wearing your armor then?"

"I can't very well go down there in nothing."

A slight flush crept up Alistair's neck. "No, I mean, you were talking about maybe wearing a gown last night."

"Well, considering what Zevran brought back for me..." she said, gesturing to the bundle of bright red fabric on her bed. "He said that I should 'wear nothing but Antivan red... or nothing at all, which would be preferable.'" She mimicked the elf's accent as she quoted him. "I looked at it and told him it would cause a riot."

"It can't be _that_ bad."

Myranda walked over to the bed and picked up the garment, holding it up for his inspection. Unlike the last red dress she had worn, this one was undeniably and unbelievably beautiful, erotic and almost exotic in its design. The neckline of the sleeveless velvet gown plunged in a deep V to a point that would be well below her breasts, and the back scooped dangerously low, held together only by a few flimsy-looking laces. The skirt was long and luxurious, while the extra fabric along the back of the hem would create a short semi-circular train behind her. It was a slender piece and would probably cling to her body like a second skin.

Alistair took a deep breath, trying not to imagine what she would look like in it and failing. Considering how good the _other_ red dress she had worn had looked... and since this one looked like it was made for her body... and there would be no way she could wear anything _under_ it.... He took another deep, calming breath. Yes, if she had worn that it would have caused a riot... if she had gotten downstairs in the first place.

Myranda saw where his mind had taken him and grinned. "When I told Zevran that I wasn't wearing it to the ceremony," she murmured, "he said I should wear it tonight, as a favor to you."

"I think I'd like that." His voice was slightly breathless.

"We thought you might." She bundled up the almost-dress and tossed it back on the bed. "But we have to get through this ceremony first."

"Hmm? Oh... yes." He smiled a little. "They probably wouldn't like it if I kept the guest of honor from showing up."

She looked at him and frowned. "You realized I've banished you to the shadows."

"What do you mean?"

"All they'll remember is my name. I've condemned you to my shadow, known only as 'the other Warden.'"

He smiled. "There's no place I'd rather be," he said. "As long as I can stay by your side, I don't care if they remember me or not."

She smiled, walking over to him before kissing him softly, a kiss he returned immediately. Minutes ticked by and the kiss only grew deeper and more hungry, long denied passions making themselves known.

"Wait, wait," he managed around his heavy panting when he broke away from her. "We have to get through the ceremony."

"Oh... yes. You're right." A wicked grin crossed her lips. "I'm such a bad little mage," she murmured, tracing odd patterns across his chestplate, "teasing a templar in such a way."

"I may have to take you to the tower after all," he threatened with a teasing grin.

"Are you sure I couldn't persuade you to change your mind?"

"You'll have to be very convincing."

"I think I can manage that," she said, tilting her head to trail kisses along his neck. She moaned softly as he tilted his head back, his arms tightening around her to pull her closer. She rocked her hips against his, delighting in the groan of pleasure and lust the action produced. She pulled away a little, staring up at him.

"The ceremony," they said together.

Myranda sighed. "Right." She looked up at him again. "Are the Orlesian Wardens here yet?"

"Not yet, but they've already sent... questions. What should I tell them?"

Myranda smiled at him, holding him tightly. "I don't care what you tell them," she said.

He grinned at her. "That a maleficar saved you and then ran off to have my demon baby?" he asked with a laugh. "That has a certain ring to it, right?" He nibbled on her ear as she giggled. "No," he murmured after a moment. "I suppose I'll just keep that to myself." He pulled away a little to look into her eyes. "I can shrug and look stupid," he said with a smirk. "It's a talent."

"Or you can tell them Riordan made the sacrifice," she said before kissing him again. "Or let them wonder." She kissed him again. "I don't care."

They fell into another deeply passionate kiss, Myranda wrapping her leg around Alistair's waist as he pulled her closer, moaning loudly into his mouth. She made a soft noise of surprise when Alistair reached down to grip her thigh, pulling her hips against his, the noise turning into a lustful moan as she plundered his mouth with her tongue.

"We don't _need_ to go to the ceremony, do we?" she asked breathlessly when they came up for air several long minutes later, tilting her head back as he kissed along her jaw and down her neck. "Can't we just skip the ceremony and get right to the steamy bits?"

"Hmm, maybe," he murmured against her skin. "I suppose we _are_ alone. The bed's... right over there. This is true."

She moaned loudly, rocking her hips against his. "No time like the present, then," she whispered.

He groaned and kissed her lips hard, struggling to remember that they didn't have time for him to pull their armor off and make passionate love to her right then. "Maker's breath," he breathed when he pulled away, resting his hands on her hips, "you could tempt a Chantry brother from his vows."

She smiled. "And yet I'm all yours," she murmured, "wholly and completely."

"I'll have to remember to talk to the Revered Mother today," he said, a ridiculously happy smile crossing his lips.

"Looking forward to the bliss of married life?"

"I'm looking to our wedding night," he teased, nuzzling her.

Myranda giggled, grinding her hips against his. "You are a bad, bad man."

"I thought you liked that about me," he whispered into her ear as he pulled her hips against him as she rocked.

"Oh, I do," she moaned. "I _do_." She shivered as he chuckled deep in his throat.

"You're a bad girl, Myranda Cousland."

"I thought you liked that about me."

"You have no idea."

She giggled and kissed him again, reluctantly untangling herself from around him and stepping away. "Lesson three is patience," she said.

"I hate lesson three," he said.

"So do I." She stepped over Baby on her way to the mirror and smoothed her hair. "It's too bad Morrigan won't be at the ceremony. I wish I could thank her again, now that I know the ritual worked."

"Speaking of Morrigan, do you know where she went?"

Myranda shook her head. "No. I only know she doesn't want to be followed."

"I'm just concerned about what that ritual is going to cost, eventually," Alistair said with a slight frown.

"I don't know. But as far as I'm concerned, the benefits outweigh the costs." She picked up the amulet she had gotten in Haven and looped the cord over her head. She looked down into its mirrored back and paused, petting Baby when he whined up at her as a slight frown crossed her lips before she sighed softly.

Alistair watched this transformation with slight concern. "Are you all right?"

"I miss my father," she said. "And my mother. And Fergus. I just..." She shook her head a little. "I just wish I could see them again." She sighed again and dropped the amulet beneath her breastplate before looking up at him. "But thinking that way doesn't do me any good." She smiled. "I have you and Baby, and that's enough for me."

He smiled a little before walking over and hugging her gently.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"For?"

"For going through with the ritual. I..." She hugged him tighter. "I didn't like the idea any more than you, but the thought the archdemon tearing us apart—forever—was more than I could stand."

"You're still alive. That's enough for me." He noticed how she suddenly curled tighter against him, somehow knowing the question and the fear in her mind. "I wanted it to be you," he whispered. "The entire time, I kept my eyes closed and thought of you."

"I...." She nuzzled her head against his neck, breathing his soft scent. "I know I shouldn't worry about that. I shouldn't ask. There's no way to put it without sounding..."

"Jealous."

She sighed again, more heavily, and nodded.

"Trust me, there's no contest there. I choose you every day, forever."

She looked up at him and smiled. "Thank you, Alistair."

He smiled and kissed her softly on the forehead before stepping away. "Come on," he said, tucking her hand formally into his elbow. "Let's get this over with."

 

 

The reception hall of the palace was a riot of color. Banners from every noble family hung from the ceiling, though the Cousland family's and the Grey Wardens' were the most prominent. The Revered Mother said only a few words as she placed the crown of state on Anora's head and the young queen accepted it amidst thunderous applause.

"My friends," Anora began, "we are gathered not to witness my coronation, but to celebrate those responsible for our victory." She looked over at Myranda, who stood on the dais with Alistair behind her, Baby sitting next to her with his tongue lolling out happily. "Of those who stood against the darkspawn siege of Denerim, there is one in particular who deserves commendation. The one who led the charge against the archdemon and killed it remains with us still, an inspiration to all she saved that day." She smiled and held out her hand toward the other blonde. "Ladies and gentlemen," she said proudly, "I present the Hero of Ferelden, the first Grey Warden to defeat the Blight since Garahel four centuries ago: Warden Commander Myranda Cousland."

The room erupted in cheers and Myranda smiled and waved a little.

"Commander Cousland," Anora said, turning to her, "it is hard to imagine how you could have aided Ferelden more. I think it only appropriate that I return the favor. Is there any boon you might request of Ferelden's queen?"

"I thank you for your generous offer, your Majesty," Myranda said with a slight bow. "But I ask only that the sacrifices of the Wardens not be forgotten again."

The queen nodded. "An excellent point. We can begin with a monument here in Denerim dedicated to all the other Grey Wardens who fell to save us."

"The Wardens would be deeply honored by such recognition."

"We should also collect scholars to learn more about the darkspawn. We'll face them again, here and with the dwarves."

"Thank you, your Majesty."

Anora nodded, a secretive smile crossing her lips before she looked back toward the crowd. "Teyrn Cousland! Step forward, please."

Myranda blinked in confusion before returning her eyes to the crowd of nobles. When one—a tall young man with dark hair and a roguish grin she recognized—stepped to the base of the stairs and bowed, she gasped loudly, her hand coming up to cover her mouth.

Alistair's hand went immediately to her shoulder, comforting and reassuring. "Who is it?"

"That's my brother!" she whispered to him, tears welling in her eyes. "All this time...!"

"I am aware of the injustice done to your family by Arl Howe," Anora was saying. "With the arl himself slain, I would like to bestow his lands to you."

Fergus bowed again. "Thank you, your Majesty," he said. He straightened and looked at Myranda, smiling. "But I think the Grey Wardens have more need of a headquarters and a home in Ferelden. I would therefore like to respectfully decline, and see it granted to the Wardens."

Myranda lowered her hand from her mouth to where Alistair's hand rested on her shoulder, tears slipping down her cheeks as she smiled at her brother and mouthed her thanks.

"Very well," Anora said with a smile. "Let it be known, then, that the arling of Amaranthine, once the land of Arl Howe, is now granted to the Grey Wardens. There they can rebuild, following the example of those who went before them." As the crowd of nobles cheered and applauded, she turned to Myranda, lowering her voice for her ears alone. "What are your plans? Will you remain with the Grey Wardens?"

Myranda glanced over her shoulder at Alistair and smiled at him as she wiped away her tears, squeezing his hand gently before he pulled it away. "Yes," she said. Then looking back at the queen, she continued. "The darkspawn are still a threat. The Grey Wardens need me."

Anora's blue eyes flitted from her to Alistair and back, a subtle gleam flickering there. "I am certain they will be relieved to know your intentions," she said with a knowing smile.

"I wouldn't think of leaving them."

The queen's smile softened a little. "There is a group of eager Fereldan citizens waiting outside to get a look at their hero," she said. "I suggest you make at least a brief appearance before they storm the gate." She chuckled then, a small laugh that Myranda shared. "Just tell the guard at the door when you are ready."

"Thank you, your Majesty." She glanced down toward the crowd at the bottom of the stairs before looking back at the other woman.

Anora nodded. "I know you must be anxious. Go see him."

Myranda smiled and looked back at Alistair again before she all but ran down the steps, forgetting all decorum. Baby bounded behind her, barking. "Fergus!" she shouted. "Fergus!"

"Myranda!"

Myranda laughed even as the tears fell down her cheeks as she leapt into her brother's arms, hugging him tightly around the neck as he spun her around. "You're alive! I can't believe it!"

"So are you! I heard what happened at Highever..."

"...tried to find you at Ostagar..."

"...learned you became a Grey Warden..."

"...Loghain left everyone to die..."

"...all the Grey Wardens had died in the battle..."

They looked at each other for a few seconds, realizing they weren't hearing the other for trying to tell their own story before laughing again. "I'm so happy to see you," Myranda said.

"My sister," Fergus said, beaming at her, "the Hero of Ferelden!" He shook his head, reaching up and rubbing his thumb over her cheek to wipe away a stray tear. "Father... he would have been so proud of you. I know I am. You've done good, baby sister." He looked down at Baby when the mabari barked again. "Hey, Baby," he said, reaching down and rubbing the dog. "Glad to see you, too!”

Myranda watched and hugged him again when he straightened. "I knew I should have looked harder for you."

He laughed softly, returning her hug. "I'm not sure you wouldn't have just been wasting your time, to be honest," he told her.

She pulled away then to look at him again. "What happened to you, Fergus?"

"I never made it to the battle at Ostagar," he told her. "We were still scouting in the Wilds when we were attacked by a party of darkspawn. Most of my men were killed. I woke up two weeks later in a Chasind hut, wounded and feverish. By the time I was able to get out of the Wilds, you were already marching to Denerim."

"Blessed Andraste! A whole year you were in the Wilds?"

"Wandering around lost, mostly. Sometimes I don't know how I didn't get caught. I tried to get word to Highever." He frowned. "You can imagine what happened, I suppose."

"Howe paid for what he did," Myranda said. "I killed him myself."

Fergus's face darkened. "Howe was a greedy, traitorous bastard. I just wish I'd been there to help you kill him." He gave her a look. "You made sure he was dead, I hope? I remember all too well Father's story about that Orlesian he thought he'd killed nearly murdering him in his sleep."

"I don't think I'll have that problem," she assured him. "I took his head with the family sword."

"Good girl." He gripped her shoulders. "At least Amaranthine now belongs to the Grey Wardens. There's some justice in that, I think."

"Thank you for that."

He smiled. "Well, I couldn't leave the Order wandering around homeless, could I? You're still my baby sister, I have to look out for you." He leaned forward and kissed her forehead before looking at her again, a strained smile on his face. "I need to go back to Highever," he said. "See if I can clean up the mess Howe made of it. I will see you soon, I hope?"

"Of course you will!"

"Good. Highever won't be the same without... everyone around." His smile faded quickly.

Myranda frowned. "Oriana... and Oren... Fergus, I'm so sorry."

"I know," he murmured. "I'm... trying not to think about them." The siblings spent a moment in quiet remembrance before Fergus spoke again. "Take care of yourself, you hear?" He smiled then. "Or I'll find you and nag you like Mother did until you're ready to tear out your hair."

She laughed. "I don't think you'll have to worry about it," she said, glancing over at Alistair as she heard him approach. "Alistair will make sure that I do."

"Teyrn Cousland," Alistair said, bowing his head.

Fergus grinned. "So you were the one who was looking after my baby sister."

Alistair smiled at Myranda. "More like she was looking after me."

She returned the smile affectionately as his arm slid around her waist. "We looked after each other," she qualified.

"These formal affairs drive me _insane_ ," he said. Then he lowered his voice. "I can't _wait_ to be alone with you," he murmured in her ear, "to finish what we started."

She looked over her shoulder at him, a suggestive smirk on her lips. "Did you speak with the Revered Mother?" she asked, deciding that making wild, passionate love to him right there in the middle of the throne room floor was probably not a good idea.

"Yes, love. She said she could see us tomorrow."

"So soon? Ah, well, maybe it's better that way."

Fergus lifted an eyebrow at his sister. "What's all this?"

Myranda blushed a little. "I... We're getting married... tomorrow, apparently. Hopefully we can keep it quiet."

He laughed. "Good luck! Somehow I doubt you'll be able to."

"Well, I'm going to try." She took his hand. "You'll be there, won't you, Fergus?"

"You think I'd miss my baby sister's wedding? An archdemon couldn't keep me away!" He grinned at Alistair then. "Are you sure you want to, though?"

"I can't imagine being with anyone else."

"Really? I don't know... Myra's got a hard head." He laughed and rubbed his arm where his sister punched him. "And did I mention she's rather violent?"

"And a tease," Alistair added.

"And a smart-ass."

"And scary."

Fergus laughed again. "Scary isn't the half of it! There was this one time..."

"All right," Myranda cut him off. "If you two are going to talk about me, I'm going to leave. Just don't lie too villainously, Fergus."

"Go on," Fergus said with a slight laugh, returning her gentle hug. "See to your public. I'll find you later."

She smiled at him before looking up at Alistair. "Meet you upstairs after dinner?" she asked with a wink.

Alistair grinned back at her. " _Oh_ , I'll be waiting," he said, wrapping his arms around her middle and hugging her tightly, "don't you worry."

She giggled and leaned up to kiss him briefly before walking away, Baby padding along next to her. She wandered through the nobles, accepted praise and congratulations, even a tight hug from Moneca, who was chatting with Leliana and a few other noblewomen. She whispered to her friend about the wedding and was told that she'd come to see her the next morning. Myranda looked at Leliana then and the bard excused herself to step away from the group to talk more privately with her.

"So here we are," she said. "The conquering heroine has won the day, and now she takes her bow and exits the stage. A fine ending," she said with a satisfied nod.

Myranda laughed a little. "But this isn't a play."

"Isn't it?" the redhead asked with a grin and a raised eyebrow. "We had danger, we had victory, and _many_ characters."

"And drama, suspense..."

"And a little romance, too," she added with a wink. "Truly I could not have borne witness to a better play had it been on a stage."

Myranda smiled at her. "You should be taking a bow with me."

Leliana waved this away. "Oh, my part was small. I'm happy to watch you receive the accolades. It's quite fun."

"For you."

The bard smiled a little at her. "You know, I can't help now but think of my vision," she said. "The Maker sent me to help you, and look what you did. It's a miracle; it truly is."

"I didn't do it alone," she said, placing her hands on Leliana's shoulders. "I had a lot of help. We all played our parts."

Leliana smiled and gave her a hug. "I've been asked by the Chantry to return to the Urn of Sacred Ashes," she told her when she pulled away. "I need to make sure it's protected. Maybe pilgrims can even begin going there again."

"Well, congratulations. Sounds like fun."

"I expect to leave a month from now, with a small army of templars and priests. It will be a grand adventure of my very own! I'm looking forward to it."

Myranda laughed a little. "I'm sure you are. Are you by chance free tomorrow, though?"

"I don't know of anything I have to do. Why do you ask?"

"I... well..." She lowered her voice so only the bard could hear her. "Alistair and I are getting married tomorrow."

Leliana's bright blue eyes lit up with excitement. "Really? That's wonderful!"

Myranda smiled, catching the other woman's giddiness. "I'd like for you to be there as a witness."

"Of course I will! You know I would not miss such a thing! I would have been very cross had you not asked me."

"Thank you, Leliana."

"Oh, to be married during the Funalis festival!" the bard gushed. "How wonderful that would be! You must allow me to go shopping with you! I'll find you the perfect gown. And shoes! We mustn't forget the shoes! No ugly boots at your wedding."

Myranda laughed at the redhead's bubbling excitement.

"At any rate... you should get back to the celebration. We can speak another time. And don't worry, I'll think of the most perfect color for you to wear. Perhaps a green, to match your eyes."

"I shall leave it in your expert hands. Just don't make the shoes too ridiculous... I do need to be able to walk." She gave her another hug before wandering away. She found Wynne talking with Caeda, but on meeting her eyes, the elder mage broke away and stepped over to her.

"Well," she said. "'The hero of Ferelden.'" She laughed a little. "My, my. How does it feel?"

Myranda shared the laugh. "To be honest, it's a little strange."

"Of that I have no doubt. It's a title you'll be wearing for a long time to come, just as Loghain wore his."

"I... don't know how I feel about that comparison."

"It's not so bad, is it? A Blight defeated with the other nations barely becoming aware. Who could ask for better?"

"I didn't do it on my own," Myranda reminded her.

"I don't think many heroes ever do," Wynne said with a smile. She looked around and sighed heavily then. "I'm glad not to be on the receiving end of all this attention, myself. I say let the young have their fame. Not that I've gone without notice," she went on. "Irving asked me to take over as first enchanter, but I don't wish to go back. Not after all this. Instead, I've decided to accept a position here at court. There has not been a mage advising the throne for a very long time."

Emerald eyes blinked in surprise. "Anora asked you to stay?"

"She seems willing to consider the idea of improving the lot of mages in Ferelden, and I am committing to seeing that happen if I can."

"But... what about... your problem?" she asked awkwardly.

The mage understood, however, and smiled at her. "It's true, I may not have very much time... but perhaps there is a great deal of good I can do even so. I will try."

"I'm sure you'll enjoy it." She grinned. "Though it won't be as exciting as wandering around Ferelden with two Grey Wardens and their assorted companions."

Wynne laughed softly. "No, but I think I've had quite enough adventure of that sort for a while."

"I suppose you'll be starting tomorrow in your new duties?"

"I believe so. There is much to do, after all." She watched the disappointed look cross the younger woman's face. "Why? Is there something happening tomorrow?"

Myranda smiled a little. "Our... Alistair's and my wedding is tomorrow."

"Well, congratulations." She smiled. "You both deserve to be happy, and I'm glad you found one another."

"Thank you. I wish you could be there, but I understand."

"You mentioned earlier that you will be leaving. I wish you good fortune on your journeys, wherever they may take you."

"Thank you."

"If we do not see each other again..." her voice trailed off as if she was searching for the words. Then she smiled, bringing her hand up to cup Myranda's cheek in a motherly gesture. "Live well, Myranda," she said. "And thank you."

Myranda smiled and stepped forward to hug the mage tightly. "I'll miss you, Wynne," she said, blinking back the tears that were threatening to well in her eyes.

"And I you. It has been quite an adventure." Wynne gave her a hard squeeze before letting her go, stepping away from her. "Now, off you go," she said, her own blue eyes looking a little misty.

Myranda continued through the room, making her way over to Sten, who was standing alone by one wall. He looked down at her as she walked up to him.

"It is good to see you standing again, kadan," he rumbled.

"Thank you, Sten."

He looked around. "These people... they call you 'hero.' It is a strange word, but I think I understand its meaning." He looked back down at her. "The Arishok on occasion has declared a qunari to be _qunoran vehl_ , one who serves as an example to others. Such examples are always made after their death, however. A death in service to the Qun. A living _qunoran vehl_ would be too proud."

"Sometimes it's that way with human heroes as well. Do the qunari celebrate and put on parades?"

"When a _qunoran vehl_ is declared, certainly," he told her. "It is one of few occasions when the qunari are permitted to engage in... revelry. There is imbibing of spirits, public chanting, meditations abandoned..." he shook his head a little. "It is madness."

Myranda laughed a little. "I imagine that would be quite a sight!"

"It is... interesting. It can take days for the Ben-Hassrath to restore order. There may even be executions."

"My goodness. Might as well let them drink themselves into comas."

Sten grunted at this. "I suppose I should tell you," he said. "I have decided to return to my people. Your quest is done, and thus so is my reason for accompanying you."

"All the way back to Par Vollen? That will be a long trip home."

He nodded. "Yes. It will be difficult to travel alone after... so much time spent with companions."

"It will be quieter, to be certain."

"Indeed." He looked at her for a moment. "It must be said: You found my sword and gave me a chance to restore my honor. I owe you a great debt."

"You helped me as well," Myranda told him. "It's been good."

"It has," he agreed, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "That one of the _bas_... a foreigner... would become known as kadan to me? Unthinkable. Yet here it is."

"Yet here it is," she said, agreeing with him. "We've come a long way from when we met in Lothering."

"Perhaps I shall see you again one day. Until then, may you always find the path you seek."

She smiled. "Thank you, Sten."

"Farewell, kadan."

She placed a hand on his arm and gave it a slight squeeze before wandering away. She was back on her way to the door when she was hailed by a deep, slurred voice. She looked over and laughed a little. "How goes it, Oghren? Have you emptied the royal cellar yet?"

"Not yet, but I'm sure I could." He grinned at her. "Humans have a better taste for spirits than I thought. Heh. The ale up here is actually _good_. Orzammar ale tastes like dirt in comparison. Probably because they put dirt in it. Go figure."

"Ah," she said around another laugh. "That explains a lot. And does that mean you're staying here?"

"Eh," he said with a shrug. "For now. They may have already branded me a surfacer back home, anyhow."

"I'm sorry," she said, but the dwarf waved it away.

"I'm getting used to that big sky up there. And I'm thinking I might just look up Felsi again... see where that goes."

"I'm glad; that would be good for you. I hope you two are happy."

"Ha! I'll drink to that!" he said, lifting his tankard and taking several long gulps. "Ah, well!" he said when he'd finished. "Enough babbling. That pot-bellied son of a whore Teagan said I'd pass out before drinking an entire barrel of pickle juice." He chuckled softly. "I aim to prove him wrong."

Myranda shook her head, though she was still smiling. "Don't ever change, Oghren."

The dwarf laughed at this. "Who, me?" He chuckled for a few more minutes before looking up at her again. "It's been good traveling with you, Warden. Don't get lost in the shuffle, now."

"I'll try," she said as she walked away.

She almost felt the heat of his gaze before she saw him. She looked over and smiled as their eyes met before making her way through the crowd toward him. His brilliant scarlet and gold tunic somehow accented both his fair hair and slightly dark skin beautifully, making him look all the more like the dashing rogue. She noted with a smirk how several of the women as she passed looked toward her destination before blushing and giggling softly to themselves. He could have his pick—with a wink and a smile he'd have them falling at his feet.

"Well, Zevran," she said with a smile when she was close enough. "It's been an adventure."

"It has, indeed. I suppose you will be staying in the city now?"

"Not for long. The Grey Wardens still need me. Besides, being at court makes Alistair nervous." She sighed a little. "But we'll have to see out this ceremony first."

"Personally I will be relieved when all this pomp and ceremony is done," he said, looking around the hall critically before lifting his eyes back to hers. "Such events are perfect opportunities for assassins, after all. I can't help but expect the Crows to appear at any moment." A slight smile touched his lips. "Which would be a welcome break, mind you. Especially after a dragon and its legions of darkspawn."

Her brow furrowed. "But we killed that other assassin who came after you—Taliesen," Myranda said. "You think the Crows will still come after you?"

Zevran shrugged slightly. "Eventually," he said. "With Taliesen dead, it may take them time to figure out what has happened. But they are like the tides: predictable."

The smile returned to Myranda's lips. "So will you stay in Denerim for a while?"

"Perhaps. Though I can't imagine I'll find much reason to stay."

"I don't know," she said thoughtfully. "Anora may have some use for you."

"Oh? You think she will be in need of an assassin?"

"She might find another use or two for a handsome elf."

That earned her a grin. "You think so, do you?" he asked. "The thought is tempting."

"Well, with her husband killed, she may be in need of some... companionship." Her smile widened. "I hear it's your specialty."

"You could still find out, you know."

She held up her hand. "Pass. Your reputation needs no help from me. And tomorrow I'll be a married woman." She grinned. "Not, I think, that that would be an obstacle for you."

Zevran laughed good-naturedly at this. "I cannot say that I have not known a few women whose husbands did not... appreciate them as they should have."

"And, of course, you had no problem making them feel appreciated."

"Certainly not!" He grinned as the Grey Warden laughed. "You know," he said thoughtfully, "it does occur to me that staying in one place is only going to invite the Crows to find me that much quicker. While fun, that might eventually get... complicated."

"I suppose so, if, as you say, they will come after you."

"And they will. Of this I have no doubts." He lifted a questioning eyebrow at her. "You said earlier that you were planning on returning to the Grey Warden fold soon, yes?"

Myranda nodded. "That is indeed what I said." She grinned at him. "Why? You thinking of joining?"

He looked mildly surprised at the question. "A Grey Warden? Me?" He shook his head. "Oh no, no, there are some bodily fluids even _I_ won't touch."

She laughed merrily at that.

"The Grey Wardens seem to be a fun bunch to hang around, however. Maybe they won't mind a resident assassin? I'm an excellent mascot."

"It's not like we won't meet again," she said.

Zevran thought about this for a moment. "Fate does have an odd way of meddling in our affairs," he said thoughtfully. "Sad as I am to part company from you, I have a feeling it won't be for good."

"I would hope not."

"Well, then, I suppose I shall be leaving soon, myself."

Myranda frowned. "How soon will you go?"

"Not too soon," he assured her. "We can speak again after you have been sufficiently paraded in front of the populace." He smirked. "And don't worry, I'll keep an eye on you and make sure no one gets a clear shot. Not without paying me a great deal of coin, anyhow." This last he added as a tease.

She laughed again. "You are a saint amongst men, Zevran."

"This I know." He looked at her and grinned. "Permit me one request before you go," he said.

"Name it."

His grin turned wicked, a look that was smug and mysterious. Before Myranda could react, he grabbed her and bent her over backwards, kissing her fully on the lips.

Myranda's eyes widened and she gasped in shock—something Zevran took full advantage of when he slid his tongue into her open mouth. He had closed his eyes when he kissed her, and she watched as they opened to smile at her in a way his lips at that moment could not.

A few long moments later he slowly broke the kiss and stood her back on her feet before releasing her. Myranda stumbled backwards a step, bringing her hand up to cover her mouth as her mind continued to reel. If he had kissed her any longer, her resistance would have broken down entirely... and she knew it.

"Something to remember me by," he said, grinning mischievously at her. "Before you marry yourself off to your fellow Grey Warden."

She let out a short laugh, lowering her hand to her chest. "I might have known you wouldn't settle for a simple good bye," she said, slightly breathless.

He laughed. "I hope Fate decrees we meet again, my friend. _Bonne niviati_ , as we say back home... drink well, and be merry. Life is good."

Myranda smiled before leaning over to kiss him—notably on the cheek. " _Bonne niviati_ ," she repeated. With a last fond smile, she turned and walked to the doors at the end of the hall. She could hear the cheering outside even through the thick layer of wood and stone. She stared at it a moment before a bark drew her attention.

"Hey, Baby," she said, kneeling and rubbing the hound. "Are you ready to meet our public? Hm? Who's a good boy? Who's my good boy?"

Baby barked, hopping happily in a circle.

She smiled and stood back up, looking over at the touch of a gentle hand on her shoulder.

"Are _you_ ready to meet your public?" Alistair asked.

"As ready as I'll ever be." She reached up and put her hand over his. "I'll feel better about it now that you're here."

He smiled and leaned over to kiss her on the forehead. "Come on. Don't keep them waiting."

She nodded before looking over at one of the guards.

"You ready, my lady?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, facing the door squarely. "Yes, I'm ready."

The guard nodded before pushing open the door, sending the Hero of Ferelden into a flood of sunlight and cheers.


	50. Epilogue: Wedding Bells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wedding of the Age. Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed it!!

**Epilogue: Wedding Bells**

_"There is nothing nobler or more admirable than when two people who see eye to eye keep house as man and wife, confounding their enemies and delighting their friends." ~Homer_

 

Myranda was startled awake the next morning by a loud pounding on the door. She groaned and burrowed down deeper into the bedclothes. ”Go away,” she called.

“Myranda!” It was Leliana’s voice. ”Myranda, may I come in?”

“No! Go away!” She burrowed deeper as the door opened anyway.

“Come on, now, you have to get up! Surely you remember what today is!”

One green eye peeked out from under the covers. ”You’re lucky I’m not in the middle of something with Alistair.”

“I knew I wouldn’t walk in on you... I passed him when I was coming back from the Market District.”

Myranda sat up, keeping the bedclothes clutched to her body, and looked at the other side of the bed only to find it was indeed empty. ”He’s gone? And I didn’t wake up?” She reached up and scrubbed her face with one hand. ”Maker’s breath...” She shook her head. ”How long ago was it that you saw him?”

“About twenty minutes ago or so... We passed each other about halfway between here and the Market. Now come on! We’ve a lot to do before your wedding!”

“I just have to dress and go to the Chantry. How long will that take?”

“Oh, you must let me fix your hair! And I want you to try on the dress and the shoes I bought!”

“You bought my wedding dress without me?” A grin crossed the blonde’s lips. ”I hope whatever you bought is the proper size this time.”

“Of course it is! Oh, you will just love it, I know it!” She placed a large parcel in the blonde woman’s lap. ”Open it! Open it!”

Myranda giggled. ”I feel like it’s First Day morning!” She ripped off the string and opened the box, staring open-mouthed at what lay inside. ”Oh, Leliana,” she breathed as she pulled it from the box.

The gown was a beautiful piece, made of green silk the exact same color as her eyes with gold trim along the deeply-scooped neckline and gold beaded decoration above it that made it more modest. It fell to the floor as she held it up and had a short train of fabric behind it. The sleeves were made of a green sheer material from the shoulder to a wide decorative gold band that would encircle her arm just above her elbow—past the decoration the sleeves were made of a sheer white material that almost seemed to shimmer and hung almost to the floor themselves. Even the shoes, wrapped in a separate parcel, were pretty: made of silk the same color as the dress with beautiful gold embroidery on the toes, they had gently tapered heels and ribbons attached to the sides that were long enough to lace up her calf to the knee. She picked up one of the shoes and inspected it.

“I was so happy to find the shoes,” Leliana gushed. ”This was the type that was in fashion when I left Orlais.”

“They’re pretty, but I don’t think I could walk in them.” She looked back at the other woman. ”Tell me you got something practical, too.”

“Your brother suggested the ugliest shoes I’d ever seen—worse than the boots you wear here—but I did let him talk me into buying these as well,” she added, pulling a pair of gold-colored flat shoes from yet another parcel.

“ _Fergus_ went _shopping_ with you?”

“He did. He was quite helpful... most of the time. He went with Alistair back to the Market, which is good.” Leliana giggled a little. ”He looked so nervous, I think your brother took pity on him.”

Myranda smiled gently. ”Fergus remembers what it’s like to be a groom... though I’m not sure why Alistair’s so nervous. This wedding doesn’t really change anything between us.”

“Indeed... you’ve been married since we saved that boy at Redcliffe, haven’t you?”

Myranda smiled a little at the memory of that night. ”Yes,” she said softly, “I suppose so.”

Leliana smiled, letting her friend relive the moment before picking up the dress and shaking it at her. ”Well, come, come! I want to see you in it!”

“All right, all right,” the blonde laughed, reaching over the side of the bed and scooping up her undergarments from the floor.

“Don’t bother,” Leliana said. ”You have to have a bath first.”

“I just took one yesterday... my hair was barely dry before we had to go to the celebration.”

“But I got the most wonderful bath oil for you! And I have some new undergarments for you... I bought them while your brother was distracted with something else.” She held up a small parcel.

Myranda looked warily at the box. ”Why am I scared?”

“I don’t know. But come on... time for your bath.”

The tub was brought in and filled, Leliana applying a rose oil to the blonde’s hair and skin as she helped her wash. The bard regaled her with stories of the grand celebrations she had witnessed in Orlais: the empress’s birthday and coronation festivals, Summerday, Satinalia... all celebrated with feasting and dancing and drinking. When Myranda was finished washing, she wrapped herself in a towel as Leliana excitedly fetched the box that contained her new small clothes, opening it for the other woman’s inspection.

The two articles that lay inside were creamy white, covered with frills and lace. What struck her about them, however, was that they made the term “small clothes” seem inadequate. Though the corset top would push up and emphasize her breasts while clinging around her narrow waist, the other piece was positively tiny and practically indecent: all strings except for a small piece of lacy cloth that would barely cover her treasure between her legs. ”Um... Leliana? I-I don’t know...”

“At least try them! Please? With the shoes they will be magnificent!”

Though dubious, she pulled on the undergarments, allowing her friend to lace up first the corset then the laces of the shoes as she used her own hands to try and cover her body. Leliana cooed, then laughed as the blonde took a step and stumbled, nearly falling.

“That’s it. I’m not wearing these... any of these.”

“Oh, come now! Look!”

Myranda looked in the mirror Leliana dragged over, noticing how the shoes made her legs look longer and her feet look slender and delicate. She carefully turned to one side, and noticed how defined and pronounced the muscles in her calves looked. It also seemed to over accentuate her figure as she stood up straight, causing her to push her hips slightly back and her chest slightly forward.

“You see how they look?” Leliana gushed. ”Oh, they are just _perfect_ for you. You have the perfect shape for them... the way your hips will sway when you walk! And I’m sure Alistair would thank you for wearing them.”

“He won’t see them under the dress.”

“But when he takes that off? Think of how surprised he’ll be.”

Myranda stared at herself in the mirror for a few more minutes, imagining what his reaction would be if he could see her at that moment, in nothing but the slinky undergarments and these shoes. And then she thought about what would happen in the next moment.

She looked over at the other woman. ”You have one hour to teach me to walk in them.”

 

 

After an hour, dressed in her new gown and feeling more confident about walking in her new shoes, Myranda sat at the room’s dressing table while Leliana stood behind her and worked out the tangles in the sea of blonde hair. They were discussing styles—Myranda thought to just leave it down while Leliana was trying to convince her to try something more elaborate—when there was a short, sharp knock on the door before it opened to admit Fergus.

“Greetings, baby sister,” he said, smiling at her. ”Hope I’m not interrupting.”

She grinned at him in the mirror. ”Would it matter if you were?”

“Not really,” he said with a slight laugh.

“I didn’t think so.”

“How are you?”

“I’m fine, Fergus. Thank you.”

“How’s she doing, Lel?” he asked the redhead.

Myranda looked at him in the mirror. ”You don’t believe me? My own brother!” She pouted. ”I think if I can make it through a battle with an archdemon, I can survive my own wedding!”

Leliana laughed at this banter. ”She seems calm enough,” she said to the young teyrn, “but I believe she is more nervous than she lets on.”

“Leliana!”

Fergus laughed. ”Well I won’t keep you. I just came up to deliver this,” he said, walking over and placing a ring on the dressing table in front of Myranda. It was a gold band with a round, medium-sized diamond flanked by two smaller emeralds.

“Oh, it’s beautiful, Fergus,” Myranda breathed, picking it up.

“Two emeralds for your eyes, and one, flawless diamond for your love. He actually said that.” He smiled gently as he watched his sister slide the ring onto her finger, recognizing the soft, loving smile that crossed her lips as she looked at it. It was the same smile that had been on Alistair’s face when he spoke of her. ”He loves you very much, Myranda,” he said softly.

“Yes,” she murmured. ”I know.” She looked up at him again. ”How is he?”

Fergus laughed softly. ”He’s a nervous wreck,” he said.

“That should look familiar.”

“All too familiar.” He shook his head. ”I was really bad, wasn’t I?”

“Terrible. At least we got a few pints into you to steady you. I wouldn’t suggest the same remedy for Alistair, though.”

“Why not?”

“He won’t make it through the ceremony. He giggles... and he gets the hiccups.”

Fergus laughed. ”I’ll remember that!”

“Fergus? Do something for me?”

“Anything, baby sister.”

Myranda stood and walked over to the bed, picking up the family sword from where it leaned against the bedside table before turning back to her brother and handing him the blade. ”Take the Cousland sword,” she said. ”It belongs back in our treasury. I’ve kept it safe, but it should be with the teyrns.”

“I’ll take it,” her brother promised. ”And I’ll wear it today.” He tied it quickly to his belt before looking back at her, smiling affectionately before putting his hands on her shoulders. ”You look beautiful, Myranda,” he said. ”I’m happy for you. Mother would be so proud, but you know she wouldn’t be able to stop crying.”

Myranda smiled a little. ”I know.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to walk you down the aisle?”

“No, stay with Alistair. I think he’ll need you more than I will. Besides, I could have Baby walk me.”

“Nope. Baby’s doing something for me.” He looked over at the mabari. ”Isn’t that right, boy?”

Baby barked.

Myranda laughed. ”All right. Then I’ll walk alone.” She hugged him tightly. ”I’m just so glad you’re going to be there... that you’re here!”

Fergus returned the hug. ”I’m glad you’re here, too. I’m so happy to see you... we’ll have to catch up on everything that’s happened.” He kissed her on the cheek before he stepped away again. ”But after you’re a married woman.” He looked over at Leliana. ”She looks good, Leliana,” he said with his roguish grin.

“Thank you,” the bard said with a smile of her own.

Myranda smirked at the light blush that colored her friend’s cheeks.

“Two o’clock, baby sister. Don’t be late!”

“I won’t.”

Fergus opened the door and bowed suddenly, hesitating before walking out into the hallway. The reason for the bow walked in a few moments later.

“I understand congratulations are in order,” Anora said.

“Thank you, your Majesty,” Myranda said.

“Alistair seems a fine man... I’m sure he’ll be a devoted husband to you.”

“I’ve no doubts about that.”

The queen smiled a little at this. ”Will you stay in Denerim long after the ceremony?”

“We can’t afford to take a honeymoon, if that’s what you’re asking. Caeda’s still a new Warden and I wouldn’t leave her alone in Ferelden to keep an eye on the darkspawn. We’ll probably leave in a few days for Amaranthine... I imagine there’s a fair amount of cleaning up to do there.”

“Such is the duty of a woman in a position of power.”

“Indeed.”

Anora’s smile widened a little and she held out her hand. ”I wish you luck and happiness, Warden Commander Cousland. Hopefully the next time we meet will be under happier circumstances.”

Myranda looked at her hand and took it, shaking it firmly. ”Thank you, Anora. I wish you luck as well.”

The other blonde nodded. ”That gown is beautiful,” she said, looking it over, “prettier than my own wedding dress. Though... may I make a suggestion on your hair?” she offered.

“Certainly.”

“I’m not certain you remember how I wore mine when I married Cailan, but I think it would look quite nice on you.”

Myranda sat again in front of the mirror. ”I think I remember. You had part of it pulled back...?”

Anora nodded. ”The top part pulled back in a pair of braids that started here,” she indicated the sides of Myranda’s head just above her ears, “braided together at the back and then coiled into a bun.”

“Though part of the braid hung down under the coil, did it not?”

“Yes, it did.”

“I see,” Leliana, who had been listening carefully to this latter part of the conversation, said. ”And then you have the under part of the hair that cascades down.”

“Which is how Alistair likes it,” Myranda added.

The bard nodded. ”I can do that.”

Green eyes caught Anora’s blue in the mirror. ”Thank you, Anora.”

Anora laughed softly in her throat. ”My pleasure, Myranda. I haven’t often had the chance to talk about hair styles with other women.”

“You are, of course, invited, though I don’t imagine you’ll be able to come.”

“No. There are many things that require my attention today. But I still give you my most heartfelt regards.”

“Thank you.”

“I must go, but I suppose I’ll see you after the ceremony?”

A wicked grin crossed the Grey Warden’s lips. ”Don’t count on it.”

Another soft, knowing laugh escaped the young queen. ”Of course. I shan’t send someone up to call you for supper then. Perhaps we shall speak again in a few days.” With one last grin, the other blonde turned and left the room.

Alone again, Leliana started on the hairstyle Anora had suggested. Myranda said nothing... she just waited. She knew. Finally, Leliana spoke.

“Your brother is quite handsome, you know.”

Myranda grinned at the other woman in the mirror. ”Oh? Do you think so?”

“Yes... I am sure many women say so.”

“They do... and yet Fergus was never impressed with the local girls. He sent away to Antiva for my sister-in-law.”

“So he’s married.”

Myranda smirked at the way the redhead wilted at the idea. ”Was.”

“Was? Oh... oh that’s right. I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right. Though it means you have a chance, especially since he likes foreign girls.”

Bright blue eyes blinked. ”What... what are you talking about?” she asked, blushing.

“Oh, yes. I’m _that_ blind. I so totally did _not_ see you two ogling each other over my head.”

“He was _not_ ogling me!” Leliana said, sounding slightly shocked and affronted at the statement. Then, after a long pause: “Was he? Was he really ogling me?”

Myranda faked thoughtfulness. ”Hm... now that you say it, I’m not sure. Maybe he wasn’t ogling you. I don't know.” She grinned mischievously. ”I could always ask him...”

“You can’t do that!” the redhead interrupted frantically. ”Could you? You couldn’t do that...”

“I could. Shall I tell him you were ogling him, too?”

“No! Because I wasn’t _ogling_ him! I was simply... admiring his eyes.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes, really!”

“From what _I_ saw, you were looking a little lower than that.” Myranda laughed. ”Oh, don’t look so offended... I’m so happy! I think you two would look good together.” She stood up and hugged the other woman. ”Then we could be sisters, too!”

Leliana smiled and returned the hug. ”Come now, let me finish brushing your hair.”

A few minutes later there was a third knock on the door, which revealed Moneca Alfstanna and her attending maid, Kira.

“So here you are... I’ve been looking all over the castle for you,” the busty redhead said. Her smile broadened as she looked at her friend. ”Oh, Myranda, that gown is _stunning_.”

“Thank you, Moneca. I expect you are coming... and your maid as well, of course.”

“Thank you, my lady,” the elf girl said with a smile.

“Of course I am! I wouldn’t miss my best friend’s wedding. Tell me you’re marrying that handsome prince charming who was with you at the Landsmeet.”

“Alistair,” Myranda informed her. ”And yes, I am.”

“Good. Can’t blame you... he’s got a nice ass.”

“Moneca!”

Moneca laughed and walked over, leaning over to hug the blonde woman tightly. ”I’m so happy for you, Myri. I hope you two are happy together.”

“Thank you, Moneca,” she said, returning the hug.

“Now,” the other noblewoman said, straightening. ”Tell me what you're doing with your hair.”

“Anora suggested a style—you remember how she wore hers when she married Cailan?”

The bann nodded in approval. ”That will look beautiful on you,” she said. ”And your makeup?”

Myranda rolled her eyes. ”Moneca...”

“Come on, Myri. A little makeup won’t hurt you.” She turned to her maid. ”Kitten, be a dear and run and get my bag, will you?”

“You’re going to paint me up whether I want to be or not, aren’t you?” Myranda asked as the elf scurried out of the room.

“Naturally. It will come out better if you don’t struggle, though.”

The three women chatted merrily until Kira returned with the requested item, just as Leliana was pushing the last pin into Myranda’s hair.

“Here it is, Mone—my lady,” the elf girl said, panting slightly.

“Thank you, love,” Moneca said, patting the girl on the backside, which caused her face to redden. ”And try to stop panting like that... you know what it does to me,” she said with a wicked smile and a wink.

“I ran all the way here,” Kira retorted. ”You don’t expect me to not be out of breath, do you?”

“But it makes me want to do all sorts of things to you that we don’t have time for right this moment.”

“Then you’re going to have to wait, then, aren’t you?” the elf replied with a wicked grin of her own.

Myranda laughed softly to herself at this banter, then groaned a little when Moneca opened the bag to pull out the varied contents. ”I’d just like to say I do this under protest.”

“Duly noted,” Moneca said, opening a compact. ”Now hold still.”

 

 

It was shortly before two when, primped and painted, Myranda made her way from the palace to the Chantry. Leliana walked with her, carrying the dress’s train to keep it out of the mud. Though she felt better about walking in the heeled shoes, Myranda still went slowly—falling in the mud was not an option. People on the streets stopped and stared at her in awe and wonder, and she wasn’t sure if it was because of her newly-acclaimed status as Hero of Ferelden or because of the way she was dressed.

The two women reached the Chantry without incident, and Leliana preceded Myranda into the building. Though the dimness of the interior after being out in the bright sunshine blinded her for a few moments, she could see Leliana scurrying up the aisle and exchange a few words with the Revered Mother. She sighed, her heart pounding a nervous rhythm in her chest.

She looked over as a figure suddenly moved in the dark corner by the door, a smile crossing her lips when she recognized him. ”Zevran,” she breathed. ”I didn’t think you’d come.”

He smiled and ran his eyes appreciatively down her figure. ”You are more beautiful than the most perfect diamond,” he murmured. ”You did not think I would miss the opportunity to see you so attired, did you?”

“I’m glad you’re here... Thank you.”

His eyes never left hers, holding her in an intense gaze as he slowly and deliberately reached out and took her hand. She worried for a minute that he would pull her into another kiss like the one he’d given her at the ceremony the day before, but he only bowed gallantly and brushed the softest of kisses against her fingers.

“I understand it is traditional for women to be given to their bridegrooms by a male relative,” he said when he straightened again

“Usually. But Fergus is at the altar with Alistair, so I’ll be walking alone.”

“Will you permit me the honor?”

Myranda’s eyes widened a little in surprise. ”You want to give me away?” she asked softly. He’d never truly stopped loving her, and she knew that, so that he made the offer shocked her.

A small, almost sad smile crossed Zevran’s lips. ”It would be somehow fitting for me to do so, would it not?”

She smiled and leaned over to kiss him on the cheek. ”Thank you,” she murmured before reaching up and pulling her veil in place. He held out his hand, palm down, and she placed hers on top of it, smiling a little as he turned his hand slightly to wrap around her fingers. Then facing the altar, she took a deep breath and started the stately march up the aisle.

When they were halfway to the altar, Fergus turned to look at her, a grin splitting his face. He leaned over and said something to Alistair, who stiffened visibly and only just stopped himself from turning. Myranda giggled softly to herself. ”He’s so nervous,” she murmured.

“You are quivering yourself, my dear,” Zevran teased.

“I just feel... edgy. I don’t know why.”

“Standing again on the edge of the cliff, yes?”

Myranda smiled at him. ”Yes. But I’m jumping this time.”

“And how fortunate Alistair is for that.”

Alistair himself was trying not to fidget... not to rock back and forth on his feet in his nervousness. He didn’t know _why_ he was nervous. It was just something about standing here waiting for her, unable to see her coming. And Fergus’s comment of “Wait until you see what she’s done” hadn’t helped. When he saw the figures—a pair... he’d thought she’d be walking alone?—come to a stop next to him, he finally looked over to find that Zevran had walked with her. But he hardly noticed the elf for the Vision that stood next to him.

Her hair was down—at least partially—and his fingers itched to dive into the soft, golden sea. Her emerald eyes sparkled behind the veil with a light the sheer fabric could never have concealed. The dress—green like her eyes—hugged her body to her hips, when it fell to the floor around her feet, and the gold embroidery and decoration around the deeply-scooped neckline tantalized him even as it obscured the upper swell of her breasts. The sleeves made her arms seem long and graceful, a pearlescent white fabric falling away from her elbows to nearly trail the floor, and he was pleased to see the emerald and diamond ring he had bought for her that morning gracing her slender right hand. He managed to lift his eyes to her face and the smile on her rosy lips made his heart skip. She was a goddess in mortal form, stealing the breath from his body and causing his heart to race. It was all he could do to keep from lifting the veil and kissing her right then. ”Blessed Andraste,” he breathed. ”You look radiant.”

Myranda blushed behind her veil, smiling at him as the Revered Mother started the ceremony. She barely heard the opening praises of the joys of marriage and the blessing of love given by the Maker to mankind. She was aware only of him and how he stared at her as if he’d never seen her before or as if she was Andraste Herself. His eyes lowered several times to take in the details of the dress or to glance at her mouth, always lifting back to hers after only a few moments, staring at her in disbelief.

The sudden silence in the Chantry shattered their trance, and Myranda realized quickly that the priest had called for any objections to the marriage. She glanced at Zevran, who smiled and shook his head minutely. She looked up at the Revered Mother then and shook her head.

The Revered Mother nodded her acknowledgment before continuing. ”Alistair and Myranda, have you come here freely and without reservation to give yourselves to each other in marriage? Will you love and honor each other as man and wife for the rest of your lives? And will you accept children lovingly from the Maker and bring them up according to the law of Andraste and Her Chantry?”

Alistair looked at Myranda. ”Yes,” he said, trying not to melt when she smiled. ”Yes, of course. I mean... I will.”

“As shall I,” Myranda murmured.

“Doubly blessed is the couple which comes to the marriage altar with the approval and blessings of their families and friends,” the priestess said then. ”Who presents this woman to be married to this man?”

“I have that honor,” Zevran said with a bow. ”And a great honor it is.” He looked at Alistair. ”There is a saying in Antiva: ‘A good woman is worth a crown, and he who is loved by a woman is fortunate and rich.’ In this case, my friend, you are the wealthiest man alive, with a woman who is as beautiful as she is good.”

“Thank you,” Alistair said.

The elf kissed Myranda’s hand one last time before it was held out to the other Grey Warden, who took it almost reverently. ”May you be happy for a hundred years, my friends,” he told them, bowing deeply before stepping back away from the couple.

The two Wardens looked back at each other then and Alistair fought back the silly grin that threatened to cross his lips. He fought to keep his hand from visibly shaking as he took her right hand in his. He knew that she knew that he was nervous—knew that she could feel his hand shaking—but her gentle smile steadied him. He took a deep breath before repeating his marriage vows.

“I, Alistair, take you, Myranda, to be my wife; and I swear before the Maker and His Divine Bride Andraste to be your loving and faithful husband. I promise to love you without reservation, to honor and respect you, to comfort you in times of distress, and to always be open and honest with you. In sunshine and rain, and through the darkest night will I stand by your side—in plenty and in want, in joy and in sorrow, in sickness and in health, from this day forward for as long as we both shall live.”

Myranda bit her lip as she smiled at him, her nose wrinkling. Her heart was racing and pounding in her chest. This was it... this was happening. She took his right hand in both of hers and smiled tenderly before repeating the vow after the Revered Mother. ”I, Myranda, take you, Alistair, to be my husband; and I swear before the Maker and His Divine Bride Andraste to be your loving and faithful wife. I promise to love you without reservation, to honor and respect you, to comfort you in times of distress, and to always be open and honest with you. In sunshine and rain, and through the darkest night will I stand by your side—in plenty and in want, in joy and in sorrow, in sickness and in health, from this day forward for as long as we both shall live.”

The Revered Mother nodded. ”May the Maker in His goodness strengthen your consent and fill you both with his blessings. What the Maker has joined, men cannot divide.” She looked at Alistair. ”The ring?”

Alistair looked back at Fergus, who grinned and whistled.

Baby barked and trotted down the aisle toward them. On reaching the altar, he sat up on his hind legs, revealing the pink gold bands tied to his fancy leather collar with a white ribbon. Myranda giggled and rubbed the hound affectionately as Alistair untied the ribbon, sending the dog over to stand beside Fergus as the rings were given to the Revered Mother. The priest took them, blessing them with a quick prayer before handing Myranda’s back.

Myranda looked back into the warm hazel eyes as Alistair took up her left hand to slide the smooth band onto her third finger before covering her hand with his. He was still trembling.

“I give this ring in the eyes of the Maker as my gift to you,” he said softly. ”Wear it and think of me, and know that I will love you and cherish you as my wife in the only way I know how... completely and forever.”

Myranda smiled, reaching up and laying her hand on his. ”I will forever wear this ring,” she said, “secure in the knowledge that you will be my constant friend, my faithful partner in life, and my one true love.” She took Alistair’s ring from the priest before taking his left hand in hers and sliding his ring onto his finger. ”And through this ring, I accept you as my husband, now and for all time. I give you this ring in the eyes of the Maker as I give to you all that I am, and accept from you all that you are.” She winked as she added this last.

Alistair smiled at her. ”I will forever wear this ring,” he murmured, “as a sign of my commitment and the true desire of my heart.”

The Revered Mother nodded. ”The most precious metal of the golden rings which have been given and received symbolize that love is the most precious thing in your lives. The ring has no beginning and no ending, which symbolizes that the love between you will never cease. You have placed them upon each other’s fingers as a visible sign of the vows which have made you husband and wife.” A small smile crossed the older woman’s face. ”So are you now wed by the blessings of the Maker and Andraste. May They grant good fortune upon you and smile upon you throughout your lives together.”

“So let it be,” the couple murmured absently. They didn’t hear the long ritual exclamation of the upcoming joys of their married life, aware only of each other. Myranda squeezed his hand, which she had held onto, and returned his smile. Her husband. She could scarcely believe it. After dreaming and praying and hoping against hope, even before he had proposed, this was finally real. She wanted to laugh or cry or dance or sing or... something! She didn’t even know, and, in the warmth of the dreamy smile he graced her with, it ceased to matter. There was nothing... no one in the world but them. Everything else was fading away.

The Revered Mother suddenly clapped her hands loudly next to them, startling them out of their trance and drawing their attention. ”You may now seal the promises you have made to each other with a kiss,” she said, an amused sparkle in her eye.

Alistair looked back at Myranda and lifted the veil to lay it back behind her, staring at her with a slight smile of disbelief as he lowered his hands to cup her face gently. Myranda smiled, sliding her arms around his shoulders before leaning over to kiss him.

It was like their first kiss had been nearly a year before: soft and deep with substantial underlying passion. And like that first kiss, it left Myranda feeling dizzy and disoriented, the room spinning around her, the ground falling out from beneath her feet, the sound of water pounding in her ears. She moaned as he lowered his right hand from her face to wrap his arm around her waist, pulling her closer to him. She slid her tongue teasingly along his lower lip before he opened his mouth to her, his own tongue meeting and playing with hers.

Alistair was lost in her, drowning in her kiss as he had done countless times before. Only a small corner of his brain that kept reminding him they were in public kept his hands from wandering over her body. He tilted his head slightly to slide his tongue past hers and into her mouth, her almost inaudible moan making his knees turn to water.

They heard nothing for a long time until the Revered Mother cleared her throat loudly next to them, causing them to pull away from each other.

“There will be quite enough time for that later,” the older woman scolded, though gently.

The two looked at each other and Myranda wrinkled her nose in a silent giggle as Alistair blushed with embarrassment. She leaned over and whispered in her husband’s ear, giggling as his blush darkened.

The turned to the assembled group as they started to cheer the couple, Myranda leaning her head against Alistair’s shoulder as he wrapped his arm around her waist. She waved at Moneca and her friends, who stood nearest to the altar, before wandering over to them when Alistair released her with a quick kiss on the cheek.

Moneca pulled her friend into a crushing hug, which Myranda returned. The two old friends exchanged a few words before Myranda looked at the other redhead who was standing next to the bann. ”Leliana? Why are you crying?”

The bard sniffled and wiped her eyes on a handkerchief. ”Oh... I always cry at weddings. I am so happy for both of you!”

Myranda smiled a little and hugged the other woman tightly. ”Thank you,” she said, “for everything.” She looked over at Caeda then. ”We’ll leave for Amaranthine in a few days.”

Caeda grinned. ”I don’t expect to see you for at _least_ a week.”

A giggle rose in the Commander’s throat. ”No, you probably won’t. But we will leave sooner rather than later. And Zevran?” she added, turning to the elf, “you will come with us, won’t you? I’m sure Caeda would appreciate your company.” She added this last as a tease.

“I would be most happy to do so,” Zevran replied, casting a wicked grin at Caeda which was immediately returned.

Baby barked then, bouncing in a circle until he caught his mistress’s attention, jumping up until she caught his front paws and licking her under the chin.

“There’s my other favorite boy,” Myranda cooed. ”You’re a good boy, aren’t you? Yes, you are!” She giggled as he barked before leaning over to kiss him on top of his furry head. ”That’s my good boy.” She placed his feet back on the floor before turning to Fergus.

The Cousland siblings said nothing, just stepped up and hugged each other tightly. And it was at this point that Myranda’s eyes filled with tears, both happy and sad. She sniffled and Fergus shushed her softly.

“Hey, no tears, baby sister.” His own voice sounded slightly choked.

“I just wish Father and Mother could have been here.”

“I know. But you know they’d be happy for you.” He pulled away to smile at her, his own dark eyes bright with unshed tears as he wiped hers away. ”I love you, Myranda, and I’m happy for you. You deserve this.” He looked her over and seemed to collect himself a little, his grin becoming slightly more roguish. ”Make sure you visit your irritating older brother once in a while,” he teased.

Myranda laughed softly. ”We’ll be neighbors, so I’ll have no excuse not to visit.” She hugged him again. ”We’ll come see you very soon.”

They hugged for a few more long moments until Fergus finally stepped away from her, a grin on his lips. Before Myranda could wonder about it, Alistair scooped her up into his arms and twirled her around, smiling as his new wife laughed and wrapped her arms around his neck, hugging him as best she could.

“You may make a decent rogue yet,” she teased. ”Sneaking up on me like that.”

“I don’t think that counts. You were distracted.” His smile faded a little. ”You’re crying.”

“I know, but they’re happy tears.” She smiled affectionately at him. ”My darling husband,” she said, “I love you.”

“And I love you,” he replied softly. ”My dearest wife.”

She smiled, leaning her forehead against his as she brought her left hand up to trace the line of his jaw. They stared at each other for several long moments before they came together in a gentle kiss, mindless of the cheer that rose around them.

 

_There used to be a greying tower alone on the sea._

_You became the light on the dark side of me._

_Love remains a drug that’s the high and not the pill._

_And did you know that when it snows_

_My eyes become alive and the light that you shine can be seen?_

 

_Baby, I compare you to a kiss from a rose on the grey._

_The more I get of you the stranger it feels._

_And now that your rose is in bloom,_

_A light hits the gloom on the grey._

 

_There is so much a man can tell you, so much he can say._

_You remain my power, my pleasure, my pain...._

 

_To me you’re like a growing addiction that I can’t deny._

_Won’t you tell me if that’s healthy, babe?_

_And did you know that when it snows_

_My eyes become alive and the light that you shine can be seen?_

 

_Baby, I compare you to a kiss from a rose on the grey._

_The more I get of you the stranger it feels._

_And now that your rose is in bloom,_

_A light hits the gloom on the grey._

 

_I’ve been kissed by a rose on the grey._

_I’ve been kissed by a rose..._

_And if I should fall along the way,_

_I’ve been kissed by a rose on the grey._

 

_There is so much a man can tell you, so much he can say._

_You remain my power, my pleasure, my pain...._

 

_To me you’re like a growing addiction that I can’t deny._

_Won’t you tell me if that’s healthy, babe?_

_And did you know that when it snows_

_My eyes become alive and the light that you shine can be seen?_

 

_Baby, I compare you to a kiss from a rose on the grey._

_The more I get of you the stranger it feels._

_And now that your rose is in bloom,_

_A light hits the gloom on the grey._


End file.
